THE  CARPET 


HBHBH 


tlAROLD 


Al 


* 


THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 


THE  CARPET  FROM 
BAGDAD 


HAROLD  MACGRATH 

I\        Author  of 

A  SPLENDID  HAZARD 

THEMAN  ON  THE  BOX 


WITH  ILL 


ANDRE  CASTAfpNE 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


CGFYIUGHT  1911 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &   CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.   Y. 


TO 
ROBERT  HICHENS 


2226902 


The  wild  hawk  to  the  windswept  sky. 

The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold, 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 

— Rudyard  Kipling. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEK  PAGE 

I  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?          ......  1 

II  AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE 20 

III  THE  HOLY  YHIORDES        .        .        .        .        •        .37 

IV  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE    ....  .55 
V  THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED     ....  74 

VI  MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY  ......  96 

VII  RYANNE  TABLES  His  CARDS        .        .        .        .        .  114 

VIII  THE  PURLOINED  CABLE 132 

IX  THE  BITTER  FRUIT 145 

X  MAHOMED  LAUGHS     .        .                ....  160 

XI  EPISODIC 179 

XII  THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT 200 

XIII  NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK 219 

XIV  MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM 240 

XV  FORTUNE'S  RIDDLE  SOLVED        .....  259 

XVI  MAHOMED  RIDES  ALONE 279 

XVII  MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     ....  301 

XVIII  THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE 323 

XIX  FORTUNE  DECIDES 337 

XX  MARCH  HARES 354 

XXI   A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE 367 

XXII  THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE  .  380 


The  Carpet  From  Bagdad 

CHAPTER  I 

WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

TO  POSSESS  two  distinctly  alien  red  corpuscles 
in  one's  blood,  metaphorically  if  not  in  fact, 
two  characters  or  individualities  under  one  epider- 
mis, is,  in  most  cases,  a  peculiar  disadvantage.  One 
hears  of  scoundrels  and  saints  striving  to  consume 
one  another  in  one  body,  angels  and  harpies;  but 
ofttimes,  quite  the  contrary  to  being  a  curse,  these 
two  warring  temperaments  become  a  man's  ultimate 
blessing:  as  in  the  case  of  George  P.  A.  Jones,  of 
Mortimer  &  Jones,  the  great  metropolitan  Oriental 
rug  and  carpet  company,  all  of  which  has  a  dignified, 
sonorous  sound.  George  was  divided  within  him- 
self. This  he  would  not  have  confessed  even  into 
the  trusted  if  battered  ear  of  the  Egyptian  Sphynx. 
There  was,  however,  no  demon-angel  sparring  for 

i 


2    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

points  in  George's  soul.  The  difficulty  might  be  set 
forth  in  this  manner:  On  one  side  stood  in- 
herent common  sense;  on  the  other,  a  boundless, 
roseate  imagination  which  was  likewise  inherent — 
a  kind  of  quixote  imagination  of  suitable  modern 
pattern.  This  alter  ego  terrified  him  whenever  it 
raised  its  strangely  beautiful  head  and  shouldered 
aside  his  guardian-angel  (for  that's  what  common 
sense  is,  argue  to  what  end  you  will)  and  pleaded 
in  that  luminous  rhetoric  under  the  spell  of  which 
our  old  friend  Sancho  often  fell  asleep. 

P.  A.,  as  they  called  him  behind  the  counters,  was 
but  twenty-eight,  and  if  he  was  vice-president  in  his 
late  father's  shoes  he  didn't  wabble  round  in  them 
to  any  great  extent  In  a  crowd  he  was  not  notice- 
able; he  didn't  stand  head  and  shoulders  above  his 
fellow-men,  nor  would  he  have  been  mistaken  by 
near-sighted  persons,  the  myopes,  for  the  Vatican's 
Apollo  in  the  flesh.  He  was  of  medium  height, 
beardless,  slender,  but  tough  and  wiry  and  enduring. 
You  may  see  his  prototype  on  the  streets  a  dozen 
times  the  day,  and  you  may  also  pass  him  without 
turning  round  for  a  second  view.  Young  men  like 
P.  A.  must  be  intimately  known  to  be  admired ;  you 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  3 

did  not  throw  your  arm  across  his  neck,  first-off. 
His  hair  was  brown  and  closely  clipped  about  a  head 
that  would  have  gained  the  attention  of  the  phren- 
ologist, if  not  that  of  the  casual  passer-by.  His 
bumps,  in  the  phraseology  of  that  science,  were  good 
ones.  For  the  rest,  he  observed  the  world  through 
a  pair  of  kindly,  shy,  blue  eyes. 

Young  girls,  myopic  through  ignorance  or  silliness, 
seeing  nothing"  beyond  what  the  eyes  see,  seldom  gave 
him  a  second  inspection;  for  he  did  not  know  how 
to  make  himself  attractive,  and  was  mortally  afraid 
of  the  opposite,  or  opposing,  sex.  He  could  bully- 
rag a  sheik  out  of  his  camels'  saddle-bags,  but  petti- 
coats and  lace  parasols  and  small  Oxfords  had  the 
same  effect  upon  him  that  the  prodding  stick  of  a 
small  boy  has  upon  a  retiring  turtle.  But  many  a 
worldly-wise  woman,  drawing  out  with  tact  and 
kindness  the  truly  beautiful  thoughts  of  this  young 
man's  soul,  sadly  demanded  of  fate  why  a  sweet, 
clean  boy  like  this  one  had  not  been  sent  to  her  in 
her  youth.  You  see,  the  worldly-wise  woman  knows 
that  it  is  invariably  the  lay-figure  and  not  Prince 
Charming  that  a  woman  marries,  and  that  matri- 
mony is  blindman's-buff  for  grown-ups. 


4    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Many  of  us  lay  the  blame  upon  our  parents.  We 
shift  the  burden  of  wondering  why  we  have  this 
fault  and  lack  that  grace  to  the  shoulders  of  our 
immediate  forebears.  We  go  to  the  office  each  morn- 
ing denying  that  we  have  any  responsibility;  we  let 
the  boss  do  the  worrying.  But  George  never  went 
prospecting  in  his  soul  for  any  such  dross  philosophy. 
He  was  grateful  for  having  had  so  beautiful  a 
mother ;  proud  of  having  had  so  honest  a  sire ;  and 
if  either  of  them  had  endued  him  with  false  weights 
he  did  his  best  to  even  up  the  balance. 

The  mother  had  been  as  romantic  as  any  heroine 
out  of  Mrs.  RadclifFs  novels,  while  the  father  had 
owned  to  as  much  romance  as  one  generally  finds  in 
a  thorough  business  man,  which  is  practically  none 
at  all.  The  very  name  itself  is  a  bulwark  against 
the  intrusions  of  romance.  One  can  not  lift  the 
imagination  to  the  prospect  of  picturing  a  Jones  in 
ruffles  and  highboots,  pinking  a  varlet  in  the  mid- 
riff. It  smells  of  sugar-barrels  and  cotton-bales,  of 
steamships  and  railroads,  of  stolid  routine  in  the 
office  and  of  placid  concern  over  the  daily  news  under 
the  evening  lamp. 

Mrs.  Jones,  lovely,  lettered  yet  not  worldly,  had 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  5 

dreamed  of  her  boy,  bayed  and  decorated,  marrying 
the  most  distinguished  woman  in  all  Europe,  who- 
ever she  might  be.  Mr.  Jones  had  had  no  dreams 
at  all,  and  had  put  the  boy  to  work  in  the  shipping 
department  a  little  while  after  the  college  threshold 
had  been  crossed,  outward  bound.  The  mother, 
while  sweet  and  gentle,  had  a  will,  iron  under  velvet, 
and  when  she  held  out  for  Percival  Algernon  and 
a  decent  knowledge  of  modern  languages,  the  old 
man  agreed  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  boy's  first 
name  should  be  George  and  that  he  should  learn  the 
business  from  the  cellar  up.  There  were  several 
tilts  over  the  matter,  but  at  length  a  truce  was  de- 
clared. It  was  agreed  that  the  boy  himself  ought 
to  have  a  word  to  say  upon  a  subject  which  con- 
cerned him  more  vitally  than  any  one  else.  So,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  when  he  was  starting  off  for  pre- 
paratory school,  he  was  advised  to  choose  for  him- 
self. He  was  an  obedient  son,  adoring  his  mother 
and  idolizing  his  father.  He  wrote  himself  down 
as  George  Percival  Algernon  Jones,  promised  to 
become  a  linguist  and  to  learn  the  rug  business  from 
the  cellar  up.  On  the  face  of  it,  it  looked  like  a  big 
job;  it  all  depended  upon  the  boy. 


6    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

The  first  day  at  school  his  misery  began.  He  had 
signed  himself  as  George  P.  A.  Jones,  no  small 
diplomacy  for  a  lad;  but  the  two  initials,  standing 
up  like  dismantled  pines  in  the  midst  of  uninterest- 
ing landscape,  roused  the  curiosity  of  his  school- 
mates. Boys  are  boys  the  world  over,  and  possess 
a  finesse  in  cruelty  that  only  the  Indian  can  match ; 
and  it  did  not  take  them  long  to  unearth  the 
fatal  secret.  For  three  years  he  was  Percy  Algy, 
and  not  only  the  boys  laughed,  but  the  pretty 
girls  sniggered.  Many  a  time  he  had  returned 
to  his  dormitory  decorated  (not  in  accord  with 
the  fond  hopes  of  his  mother)  with  a  swol- 
len ear,  or  a  ruddy  proboscis,  or  a  green-brown 
eye.  There  was  a  limit,  and  when  they  stepped  over 
that,  why,  he  proceeded  to  the  best  of  his  ability  to 
solve  the  difficulty  with  his  fists.  George  was  no 
milksop;  but  Percival  Algernon  would  have  been 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  on  broader  shoulders  than 
his.  He  dimly  realized  that  had  he  been  named 
George  Henry  William  Jones  his  sun  would  have 
been  many  diameters  larger.  There  was  a  splendid 
quality  of  pluck  under  his  apparent  timidity,  and  he 
stuck  doggedly  to  it.  He  never  wrote  home  and 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  7 

complained.    What  was  good  enough  for  his  mother 
was  good  enough  for  him. 

It  seemed  just  an  ordinary  matter  of  routine  for 
him  to  pick  up  French  and  German  verbs.  He  was 
far  from  being  brilliant,  but  he  was  sensitive  and 
his  memory  was  sound.  Since  his  mother's  ambi- 
tion was  to  see  him  an  accomplished  linguist,  he 
applied  himself  to  the  task  as  if  everything  in  th& 
world  depended  upon  it,  just  as  he  knew  that  when 
the  time  came  he  would  apply  himself  as  thoroughly 
to  the  question  of  rugs  and  carpets. 

Under  all  this  filial  loyalty  ran  the  pure  strain  of 
golden  romance,  side  by  side  with  the  lesser  metal 
of  practicality.  WThen  he  began  to  read  the  masters 
he  preferred  their  romances  to  their  novels.  He 
even  wrote  poetry  in  secret,  and  when  his  mother 
discovered  the  fact  she  cried  over  the  sentimental 
verses.  The  father  had  to  be  told.  He  laughed  and 
declared  that  the  boy  would  some  day  develop  into 
a  good  writer  of  advertisements.  This  quiet  laugh- 
ter, unburdened  as  it  was  with  ridicule,  was  enough 
to  set  George's  muse  a-winging,  and  she  never  came 
back. 

After  leaving  college  he  was  given  a  modest  letter 


8    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

of  credit  and  told  to  go  where  he  pleased  for  a  whole 
year.  George  started  out  at  once  in  quest  of  the 
Holy  Grail,  and  there  are  more  roads  to  that  than 
there  are  to  Rome.  One  may  be,  reasonably  sure  of 
getting  into  Rome,  whereas  the  Holy  Grail  (diversi- 
fied, variable,  innumerable)  is  always  the  exact  sum 
of  a %unch  of  hay  hanging  before  old  Dobbin's  nose. 
Nevertheless,  George  galloped  his  fancies  with  loose 
rein.  He  haunted  the  romantic  quarters  of  the 
globe;  he  hunted  romance,  burrowed  and  plowed 
for  it ;  and  never  his  spade  clanged  musically  against 
the  hidden  treasure,  never  a  forlorn  beauty  in  dis- 
tress, not  so  much  as  chapter  one  of  the  Golden 
Book  offered  its  dazzling  first  page.  George  lost 
some  confidence. 

Two  or  three  times  a  woman  looked  into  the 
young  man's  mind,  and  in  his  guilelessness  they  ef- 
fected sundry  holes  in  his  letter  of  credit,  but  left 
his  soul  singularly  untouched.  The  red  corpuscle, 
his  father's  gift,  though  it  lay  dormant,  subcon- 
sciously erected  barriers.  He  was  innocent,  but  he 
was  no  fool.  That  one  year  taught  him  the  lesson, 
rather  cheaply,  too.  If  there  was  any  romance  in 
life,  it  came  uninvited,  and  if  courted  and  sought 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  9 

was  as  quick  on  the  wing  as  that  erstwhile  poesy 
muse. 

The  year  passed,  and  while  he  had  not  wholly 
given  up  the  quest,  *he  practical  George  agreed  with 
the  romantic  Percival  to  shelve  it  indefinitely.  He 
returned  to  New  York  with  thirty-pounds  sterling 
out  of  the  original  thousand,  a  fact  that  rejuvenated 
his  paternal  parent  by  some  ten  years. 

"Jane,  that  boy  is  all  right.  Percival  Algernon 
could  not  kill  a  boy  like  that." 

"Do  you  mean  to  infer  that  it  ever  could  ?"  Some- 
times a  qualm  wrinkled  her  conscience.  Her 
mother's  heart  told  her  that  her  son  ought  not  to  be 
shy  and  bashful,  that  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
his  blood  to  suspect  ridicule  where  there  was  none. 
Perhaps  she  had  handicapped  him  with  those  names ; 
but  it  was  too  late  now  to  admit  of  this,  and  use- 
less, since  it  would  not  have  remedied  the  evil. 

Jones  hemmed  and  hawed  for  a  space.  "No,"  he 
answered;  "but  I  was  afraid  he  might  try  to  live 
up  to  it;  and  no  Percival  Algernon  who  lived  up 
to  it  could  put  his  nose  down  to  a  Shah  Abbas  and 
tell  how  many  knots  it  had  to  the  square  inch.  I'll 
start  him  in  on  the  job  to-morrow." 


io   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Whereupon  the  mother  sat  back  dreamily.  Now, 
where  was  the  girl  worthy  her  boy?  Monumental 
question,  besetting  every  mother,  from  Eve  down, 
Eve,  whose  trials  in  this  direction  must  have  been 
heartrending ! 

George  left  the  cellar  in  due  time,  and  after  that 
he  went  up  the  ladder  in  bounds,  on  his  own  merit, 
mind  you,  for  his  father  never  stirred  a  hand  to 
boost  him.  He  took  the  interest  in  rugs  that  turns 
a  buyer  into  a  collector;  it  became  a  fascinating 
pleasure  rather  than  a  business.  He  became  in- 
valuable to  the  house,  and  acquired  some  fame  as  a 
judge  and  an  appraiser.  When  the  chief-buyer  re- 
tired George  was  given  the  position,  with  an  itin- 
erary that  carried  him  half  way  round  the  planet 
once  a  year,  to  Greece,  Turkey,  Persia,  Arabia,  and 
India,  the  lands  of  the  genii  and  the  bottles,  of  ara- 
besques, of  temples  and  tombs,  of  many-colored 
turbans  and  flowing  robes  and  distracting  tongues. 
He  walked  always  in  a  kind  of  mental  enchantment. 

The  suave  and  elusive  Oriental,  with  his  sharp 
practices,  found  his  match  in  this  pleasant  young 
man,  who  knew  the  history  of  the  very  wools  and 
cottons  and  silks  woven  in  a  rug  or  carpet.  So 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  11 

George  prospered,  became  known  in  strange  places, 
by  strange  peoples;  and  saw  romance,  light  of  foot 
and  eager  of  eye,  pass  and  repass;  learned  that 
romance  did  not  essentially  mean  falling  in  love 
or  rescuing  maidens  from  burning  houses  and 
wrecks;  that,  on  the  contrary,  true  romance  was 
kaleidoscopic,  having  more  brilliant  facets  than  a 
diamond;  and  that  the  man  who  begins  with  noth- 
ing and  ends  with  something  is  more  wonderful 
than  any  excursion  recounted  by  Sinbad  or  any  tale 
by  Scheherazade.  But  he  still  hoped  that  the  iri- 
descent goddess  would  some  day  touch  his  shoulder 
and  lead  him  into  that  maze  of  romance  so  peculiar 
to  his  own  fancy. 

And  then  into  this  little  world  of  business  and 
pleasure  came  death  and  death  again,  leaving  him 
alone  and  with  a  twisted  heart.  Riches  mattered 
little,  and  the  sounding  title  of  vice-president  still 
less.  It  was  with  a  distinct  shock  that  he  realized 
the  mother  and  the  father  had  been  with  him  so  long 
that  he  had  forgotten  to  make  other  friends.  From 
one  thing  to  another  he  turned  in  hope  to  soothe 
the  smart,  to  heal  the  wound;  and  after  a  time  he 
drifted,  as  all  shy,  intelligent  and  imaginative  men 


drift  who  are  friendless,  into  the  silent  and  intimate 
comradeship  of  inanimate  things,  such  as  jewels, 
ivories,  old  metals,  rare  woods  and  ancient  embroid- 
eries, and  perhaps  more  comforting  than  all  these, 
good  books. 

The  proper  tale  of  how  the  aforesaid  iridescent 
goddess  jostled  (for  it  scarce  may  be  said  that  she 
led)  him  into  a  romance  lacking  neither  comedy  nor 
tragedy,  now  begins  with  a  trifling  bit  of  retrospec- 
tion. One  of  those  women  who  were  not  good  and 
who  looked  into  the  clear  pool  of  the  boy's  mind  saw 
the  harmless  longing  there,  and  made  note,  hoping 
to  find  profit  by  her  knowledge  when  the  pertinent 
day  arrived.  She  was  a  woman  so  pleasing,  so 
handsome,  so  adroit,  that  many  a  man,  older  and 
wiser  than  George,  found  her  mesh  too  strong  for 
him.  Her  plan  matured,  suddenly  and  brilliantly, 
as  projects  of  men  and  women  of  her  class  and 
caliber  without  variation  do. 

Late  one  December  afternoon  (to  be  precise, 
1909),  George  sat  on  the  tea- veranda  of  the  Hotel 
Semiramis  in  Cairo.  A  book  lay  idly  upon  his 
knees.  It  was  one  of  those  yarns  in  which  something 
was  happening  every  other  minute.  As  adventures 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  13 

go,  George  had  never  had  a  real  one  in  all  his 
twenty-eight  years,  and  he  believed  that  fate  had 
treated  him  rather  shabbily.  He  didn't  quite  ap- 
preciate her  reserve.  No  matter  how  late  he  wan- 
dered through  the  mysterious  bazaars,  either  here 
in  Egypt  or  over  yonder  in  India,  nothing  ever  be- 
fell more  exciting  than  an  argument  with  a 
carriage-driver.  He  never  carried  small-arms,  for 
he  would  not  have  known  how  to  use  them.  The 
only  deadly  things  in  his  hands  were  bass-rods  and 
tennis-racquets.  No,  nothing  ever  happened  to 
him;  yet  he  never  met  a  man  in  a  ship's  smoke- 
room  who  hadn't  run  the  gamut  of  thrilling  ex- 
periences. As  George  wasn't  a  liar  himself,  he 
believed  all  he  saw  and  most  of  what  he  heard. 
Well,  here  he  was,  eight-and-twenty,  a  pocket 
full  of  money,  a  heart  full  of  life,  and  as  hopeless  an 
outlook,  so  far  as  romance  and  adventure  were 
concerned,  as  an  old  maid  in  a  New  England 
village.  Why  couldn't  things  befall  him  as  they 
did  the  chap  in  this  book?  He  was  sure  he  could 
behave  as  well,  if  not  better;  for  this  fellow  was 
too  handsome,  too  brave,  too  strong,  not  to  be 
something  of  an  ass  once  in  a  while. 


14   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"George,  you  old  fool,  what's  the  use?"  he 
thought.  "What's  the  use  of  a  desire  that  never 
goes  in  a  straight  line,  but  always  round  and  round 
in  a  circle?" 

He  thrust  aside  his  grievance  and  surrendered  to 
the  never-ending  wonder  of  the  Egyptian  sunset ;  the 
Nile  feluccas,  riding  upon  perfect  reflections;  the 
date-palms,  black  and  motionless  against  the  trans- 
lucent blue  of  the  sky ;  the  amethystine  prisms  of  the 
Pyramids,  and  the  deepening  gold  of  the  desert's 
brim.  He  loved  the  Orient,  always  so  new,  always 
so  strange,  yet  ever  so  old  and  familiar. 

A  carriage  stopped  in  front,  and  his  gaze  naturally 
shifted.  There  is  ceaseless  attraction  in  speculating 
about  new-comers  in  a  hotel,  what  they  are,  whit 
they  do,  where  they  come  from,  and  where  they  are** 
going.  A  fine  elderly  man  of  fifty  got  out.  In  the 
square  set  of  his  shoulders,  the  flowing  white  mus- 
tache and  imperial,  there  was  a  suggestion  of  mili- 
tarism. He  was  immediately  followed  by  a  young 
woman  of  twenty,  certainly  not  over  that  age. 
George  sighed  wistfully.  He  envied  those  polo- 
players  and  gentleman-riders  and  bridge-experts  who 
were  stopping  at  the  hotel.  It  wouldn't  be  an  hour 


5 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  15 

after  dinner  before  some  one  of  them  found  out  who 
she  was  and  spoke  to  her  in  that  easy  style  which 
he  concluded  must  be  a  gift  rather  than  an  accom- 
plishment. You  mustn't  suppose  for  a  minute  that 
George  wasn't  well-born  and  well-bred,  simply  be- 
cause his  name  was  Jones.  Many  a  Fitz-Hugh 
Maurice  or  Hugh  Fitz-Maurice  might  have 

been But,  no  matter.     He  knew  instinctively, 

then,  what  elegance  was  when  he  saw  it,  and  this  girl 
was  elegant,  in  dress,  in  movement.  He  rather  liked 
the  pallor  of  her  skin,  which  hinted  that  she  wasn't 
one  of  those  athletic  girls  who  bounced  in  and  out 
of  the  dining-room,  talking  loudly  and  smoking 
cigarettes  and  playing  bridge  for  sixpenny  points. 
She  was  tall.  He  was  sure  that  her  eyes  were  on 
the  level  with  his  own.  The  grey  veil  that  drooped 
from  the  rim  of  her  simple  Leghorn  hat  to  the  tip 
of  her  nose  obscured  her  eyes,  so  he  could  not  know 
that  they  were  large  and  brown  and  indefinably  sad. 
They  spoke  not  of  a  weariness  of  travel,  but  of  a 
weariness  of  the  world,  more  precisely,  of  the  people 
who  inhabited  it. 

She  and  her  companion  passed  on  into  the  hotel, 
and   if   George's    eyes    veered   again   toward    the 


i6   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

desert  over  which  the  stealthy  purples  of  night  were 
creeping,  the  impulse  was  mechanical ;  he  saw  noth- 
ing. In  truth,  he  was  desperately  lonesome,  and  he 
knew,  moreover,  that  he  had  no  business  to  be.  He 
was  young;  he  could  at  a  pinch  tell  a  joke  as  well 
as  the  next  man;  and  if  he  had  never  had  what  he 
called  an  adventure,  he  had  seen  many  strange  and 
wonderful  things  and  could  describe  them  with 
that  mental  afterglow  which  still  lingers  over  the 
sunset  of  our  first  expressions  in  poetry.  But  there 
was  always  that  hydra-headed  monster,  for  ever  get- 
ting about  his  feet,  numbing  his  voice,  paralyzing 
his  hands,  and  never  he  lopped  off  a  head  that  an- 
other did  not  instantly  grow  in  its  place.  Even  the 
sword  of  Perseus  could  not  have  saved  him,  since 
one  has  to  get  away  from  an  object  in  order  to  cut 
it  down. 

Had  he  really  ever  tried  to  overcome  this 
monster?  Had  he  not  waited  for  the  propitious 
moment  (which  you  and  I  know  never  comes)  to 
throw  off  this  species  from  Hades?  It  is  all  very 
well,  when  you  are  old  and  dried  up,  to  turn  to 
ivories  and  metals  and  precious  stones;  but  when 
a  fellow's  young!  You  can't  shake  hands  with  an 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  17 

ivory  replica  of  the  Taj  Mahal,  nor  exchange 
pleasantries  with  a  Mandarin's  ring,  nor  yet  confide 
joys  and  ills  into  a  casket  of  rare  emeralds ;  indeed, 
they  do  but  emphasize  one's  loneliness.  If  only  he 
had  had  a  dog;  but  one  can  not  carry  a  dog  half  way 
round  the  world  and  back,  at  least  not  with  comfort. 
What  with  all  these  new-fangled  quarantine  laws, 
duties,  and  fussy  ships'  officers  who  wouldn't  let 
you  keep  the  animal  in  your  state-room,  traveling 
with  a  four-footed  friend  was  almost  an  impossi- 
bility. To  be  sure,  women  with  poodles.  .  .  . 
And  then,  there  was  the  bitter  of  acid  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  no  one  ever  came  up  to  him  and  slapped 
him  on  the  shoulder  with  a — "Hel-lo,  GSorgie,  old 
sport;  what's  the  good  word?"  for  the  simple  fact 
that  his  shoulder  was  always  bristling  with  spikes, 
born  of  the  fear  that  some  one  was  making  fun  of 
him. 

Perchance  his  mother's  spirit,  hovering  over  him 
this  evening,  might  have  been  inclined  to  tears.  For 
they  do  say  that  the  ghosts  of  the  dear  ones  are 
thus  employed  when  we  are  near  to  committing  some 
folly,  or  to  exploring  some  forgotten  chamber  of 
Pandora's  box,  or  worse  still,  when  that  lady  in- 


i8   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

tends  emptying  the  whole  contents  down  upon  our 
unfortunate  heads.  If  so  be,  they  were  futile  tears; 
Percival  Algernon  had  accomplished  its  deadly 
purpose. 

Pandora?  Well,  then,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
children.  She  was  a  lady  who  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  mythological  gods.  They  liked  her 
appearance  so  well  that  they  one  day  gave  her  a  box, 
casket,  chest,  or  whatever  it  was,  to  guard.  By  some 
marvelous  method,  known  only  of  gods,  they  had 
got  together  all  the  trials  and  tribulations  of  man- 
kind (and  some  of  the  joys)  and  locked  them  up  in 
this  casket.  It  was  the  Golden  Age  then,  as  you 
may  surmise.  You  recall  Eve  and  the  Apple  ?  Well, 
Pandora  was  a  forecast  of  Eve;  she  couldn't  keep 
her  eyes  off  the  latch,  and  at  length  her  hands — 
Fatal  curiosity!  Whirr!  And  everything  has  been 
at  sixes  and  at  sevens  since  that  time.  Pandora  is 
eternally  recurring,  now  here,  now  there;  she  is  a 
blonde  sometimes,  and  again  she  is  a  brunette;  and 
you  may  take  it  from  George  and  me  that  there  is 
always  something  left  in  the  casket. 

George  closed  the  book  and  consulted  his  sailing- 
list  In  a  short  time  he  would  leave  for  Port  Said, 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  19 

thence  to  Naples,  Christmas  there,  and  home  in 
January.  Business  had  been  ripping.  He  would  be 
jolly  glad  to  get  home  again,  to  renew  his  comrade- 
ship with  his  treasures.  And,  by  Jove!  there  was 
one  man  who  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and 
he  was  no  less  a  person  than  the  genial  president 
of  the  firm,  his  father's  partner,  at  present  his  own. 
If  the  old  chap  had  had  a  daughter  now.  .  .  . 
And  here  one  comes  at  last  to  the  bottom  of  the 
sack.  He  had  only  one  definite  longing,  a  healthy 
human  longing,  the  only  longing  worth  while  in  all 
this  deep,  wide,  round  old  top :  to  love  a  woman  and 
by  her  be  loved. 

At  exactly  half  after  six  the  gentleman  with  the 
reversible  cuffs  arrived;  and  George  missed  his 
boat. 


CHAPTER  II 

AN   AFFABLE  ROGUE 

THE  carriage  containing  the  gentleman  with  the 
reversible  cuffs  drew  up  at  the  side  entrance. 
Instantly  the  Arab  guides  surged  and  eddied  round 
him ;  but  their  clamor  broke  against  a  composure  as 
effective  as  granite.  The  roar  was  almost  directly 
succeeded  by  a  low  gurgle,  as  of  little  waves  reced- 
ing. The  proposed  victim  had  not  spoken  a  word; 
to  the  Arabs  it  was  not  necessary ;  in  some  manner, 
subtle  and  indescribable,  they  recognized  a  brother. 
He  carried  a  long,  cylindrical  bundle  wrapped  in 
heavy  paper  variously  secured  by  windings  of  thick 
twine.  His  regard  for  this  bundle  was  one  of  tender 
solicitude,  for  he  tucked  it  under  his  arm,  cumber- 
some though  it  was,  and  waved  aside  the  carriage- 
porter,  who  was,  however,  permitted  to  carry  in 
the  kit-bag. 

20 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  21 

The  manager  appeared.  When  comes  he  not  upon 
the  scene  ?  His  quick,  calculating1  eye  was  not  wholly 
assured.  The  stranger's  homespun  was  travel-worn 
and  time-worn,  and  of  a  cut  popular  to  the  season 
gone  the  year  before.  No  fat  letter  of  credit  here, 
was  the  not  unreasonable  conclusion  reached  by  the 
manager.  Still,  with  that  caution  acquired  by  years 
of  experience,  which  had  culminated  in  what  is 
known  as  Swiss  diplomacy,  he  brought  into  being 
the  accustomed  salutatory  smile  and  inquired  if  the 
gentleman  had  written  ahead  for  reservation,  other- 
wise it  would  not  be  possible  to  accommodate  him. 

"I  telegraphed,"  crisply. 

"The  name,  if  you  please?" 

"Ryanne;  spelled  R-y-a  double-n  e.  Have  you 
ever  been  in  County  Clare?" 

"No,  sir."  The  manager  added  a  question  with 
the  uplift  of  his  eyebrows. 

"Well,"  was  the  enlightening  answer,  "you  pro- 
nounce it  as  they  do  there." 

The  manager  scanned  the  little  slip  of  paper  in 
his  hand.  "Ah,  yes;  we  have  reserved  a  room  for 
you,  sir.  The  French  style  rather  confused  me." 
This  was  not  offered  in  irony,  or  sarcasm,  or  satire ; 


22   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mining  in  a  Swiss  brain  for  the  saving  grace  of 
humor  is  about  as  remunerative  as  the  extraction 
of  gold  from  sea-water.  Nevertheless,  the  Swiss  has 
the  talent  of  swiftly  substracting  from  a  confusion 
of  ideas  one  point  of  illumination:  there  was  a 
quality  to  the  stranger's  tone  that  decided  him  favor- 
ably. It  was  the  voice  of  a  man  in  the  habit  of  being 
obeyed ;  and  in  these  days  it  was  the  power  of  money 
alone  that  obtained  obedience  to  any  man.  Beyond 
this,  the  same  nebulous  cogitation  that  had  subdued 
the  Arabs  outside  acted  likewise  upon  him.  Here 
was  a  brother. 

"Mail?" 

"I  will  see,  sir."  The  manager  summoned  a  porter. 
"Room  208." 

The  porter  caught  up  the  somewhat  collapsed  kit- 
bag,  which  had  in  all  evidence  received  some  rough 
usage  in  its  time,  and  reached  toward  the  roll.  Mr. 
Ryanne  interposed. 

"I  will  see  to  that,  my  man,"  tersely. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  is  your  guest-list?"  demanded  Mr. 
Ryanne  of  the  manager. 

"The  bead-porter's  bureau,  sir.    I  will  see  if  you 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  23 

have  any  mail."  The  manager  passed  into  his  own 
bureau.  It  was  rather  difficult  to  tell  whether  this 
man  was  an  American  or  an  Englishman.  His  ac- 
cent was  western,  but  his  manner  was  decidedly 
British.  At  any  rate,  that  tone  and  carriage  must 
be  bastioned  by  good  English  sovereigns,  or  for  once 
his  judgment  was  at  fault. 

The  porter  dashed  up-stairs.  Mr.  Ryanne,  his 
bundle  still  snug  under  his  arm,  sauntered  over  to 
the  head-porter's  bureau  and  ran  his  glance  up  and 
down  the  columns  of  visiting-cards.  Once  he  nodded 
with  approval,  and  again  he  smiled,  having  dis- 
covered that  which  sent  a  ripple  across  his  sleeping 
sense  of  amusement.  Major  Callahan,  room  206; 
Fortune  Chedsoye,  205;  George  P.  A.  Jones,  210. 

"Hm !  the  Major  smells  of  County  Antrim  and  the 
finest  whisky  in  all  the  isle.  Fortune  Chedsoye; 
that  is  a  pleasing  name ;  tinkling  brooks,  the  waving 
green  grasses  in  the  meadows,  the  kine  in  the  water, 
the  fleeting  shadows  under  the  oaks;  a  pastoral,  a 
bucolic  name.  To  claim  Fortune  for  mine  own;  a 
happy  thought." 

As  he  uttered  these  poesy  expressions  aloud,  in  a 
voice  low  and  not  unpleasing,  for  all  that  it  was 


24   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

bantering,  the  head-porter  stared  at  him  with  ming- 
ling doubt  and  alarm;  and  as  if  to  pronounce  these 
emotions  mutely  for  the  benefit  of  the  other,  he  per- 
mitted his  eyes  to  open  their  widest 

"Tut,  tut;  that's  all  right,  porter.  I  am  cursed 
with  the  habit  of  speaking  my  inmost  thoughts. 
Some  persons  are  afflicted  with  insomnia ;  some  fall 
asleep  in  church ;  I  think  orally.  Beastly  habit,  eh  ?" 

The  porter  then  understood  that  he  was  dealing 
not  with  a  species  of  mild  lunacy,  but  with  that  kind 
of  light-hearted  cynicism  upon  which  the  world  (as 
porters  know  it)  had  set  its  approving  seal.  In 
brief,  he  smiled  faintly ;  and  if  he  had  any  pleasantry 
to  pass  in  turn,  the  approach  of  the  manager,  now 
clothed  metaphorically  in  deferentialism,  relegated 
it  to  the  limbo  of  things  thought  but  left  unsaid. 

"Here  is  a  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Ryanne.  Have  you 
any  more  luggage?" 

"No."  Mr.  Ryanne  smiled.  "Shall  I  pay  for  my 
room  in  advance?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir !"  Ten  years  ago  the  manager  would 
have  blushed  at  having  been  so  misunderstood. 
"Your  room  is  208." 

"Will  you  have  a  boy  show  me  the  way?" 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  25 

"I  shall  myself  attend  to  that  If  the  room  is  not 
what  you  wish  it  may  be  exchanged." 

"The  room  is  the  one  I  telegraphed  for.  I  am 
superstitious  to  a  degree.  On  three  boats  I  have 
had  fine  state-rooms  numbered  208.  Twice  the 
number  of  my  hotel  room  has  been  the  same.  On 
the  last  voyage  there  were  208  passengers,  and 
the  captain  had  made  208  voyages  on  the  Medi- 
terranean." 

"Quite  a  coincident." 

"Ah,  if  roulette  could  be  played  with  such  a  cer- 
tainty." 

Mr.  Ryanne  sighed,  hitched  up  his  bundle,  which, 
being  heavy,  was  beginning  to  wear  upon  his  arm, 
and  signified  to  the  manager  to  lead  the  way. 

As  they  vanished  round  the  corner  to  the  lift,  the 
head-porter  studied  the  guest-list.  He  had  looked 
over  it  a  dozen  times  that  day,  but  this  was  the  first 
instance  of  his  being  really  interested  in  it.  As  his 
chin  was  freshly  shaven  he  had  no  stubble  to  stroke 
to  excite  his  mental  processes ;  so  he  fell  back,  as  we 
say,  upon  the  consoling  ends  of  his  abundant  mus- 
tache. Curious;  but  all  these  persons  were  occupy- 
ing or  about  to  occupy  adjacent  rooms.  There  was 


26    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

truly  nothing  mysterious  about  it,  save  that  the 
stranger  had  picked  out  these  very  names  as  a  target 
for  his  banter.  Fortune  Chedsoye ;  it  was  rather  an 
unusual  name;  but  as  she  had  arrived  only  an  hour 
or  so  before,  he  could  not  distinctly  recall  her 
features.  And  then,  there  was  that  word  bucolic. 
He  mentally  turned  it  over  and  over  as  physically 
he  was  wont  to  do  with  post-cards  left  in  his  care  to 
mail.  He  could  make  nothing  of  the  word,  except 
that  it  smacked  of  the  East  Indian  plague. 

Here  he  was  saved  from  further  cerebral  agony 
by  a  timely  interruption.  A  man,  who  was  not  of 
bucolic  persuasion  either  in  dress  or  speech,  urban 
from  the  tips  of  his  bleached  ringers  to  the  bulb  of 
his  bibulous  nose,  leaned  across  the  counter  and 
asked  if  Mr.  Horace  Ryanne  had  yet  arrived.  Yes, 
he  had  just  arrived;  he  was  even  now  on  his  way 
to  his  room.  The  urban  gentleman  nodded.  Then, 
with  a  finger  slim  and  well-trimmed,  he  trailed  up 
and  down  the  guest-list. 

"Ha!  I  see  that  you  have  the  Duke  of  What-d'- 
ye-call  from  Germany  here.  I'll  give  you  my  card. 
Send  it  up  to  Mr.  Ryanne.  No  hurry.  I  shall  be 
in  again  after  dinner." 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  27 

He  bustled  off  toward  the  door.  He  was  pursy, 
well-fed,  and  decently  dressed,  the  sort  of  a  man 
who,  when  he  moved  in  any  direction,  created  the 
impression  that  he  had  an  important  engagement 
somewhere  else  or  was  paring  minutes  from  time- 
tables. For  a  man  in  his  business  it  was  a  clever 
expedient,  deceiving  all  but  those  who  knew  him. 
He  hesitated  at  the  door,  however,  as  if  he  had 
changed  his  mind  in  the  twenty-odd  paces  it  took  to 
reach  it.  He  stared  for  a  long  period  at  the  elderly 
gentleman  who  was  watching  the  feluccas  on  the 
river  through  the  window.  The  white  mustache  and 
imperial  stood  out  in  crisp  relief  against  the  ruddy 
sunburn  on  his  face.  If  he  was  aware  of  this 
scrutiny  on  the  part  of  the  pursy  gentleman,  he  gave 
not  the  least  sign.  The  revolving  door  spun  round, 
sending  a  puff  of  outdoor  air  into  the  lounging- 
room.  The  elderly  gentleman  then  smiled,  and 
applied  his  thumb  and  forefinger  to  the  waxen  point 
of  his  imperial. 

In  the  intervening  time  Mr.  Ryanne  entered  his 
room,  threw  the  bundle  on  the  bed,  sat  down  beside 
it,  and  read  his  letter.  Shadows  and  lights  moved 
across  his  face ;  frowns  that  hardened  it,  smiles  that 


28   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mellowed  it.  Women  hold  the  trick  of  writing  let- 
ters. Do  they  hate,  their  thoughts  flash  and  burn 
from  line  to  line.  Do  they  love,  'tis  lettered  music. 
Do  they  conspire,  the  breadth  of  their  imagination 
is  without  horizon.  At  best,  man  can  indite  only  a 
polite  business  letter,  his  love-notes  were  adjudged 
long  since  a  maudlin  collection  of  loose  sentences. 
In  this  letter  Mr.  Ryanne  found  the  three  parts  of 
life. 

"She's  a  good  general;  but  hang  these  brimstone 
efforts  of  hers.  She  talks  too  much  of  heart.  For 
my  part,  I  prefer  to  regard  it  as  a  mere  physical 
function,  a  pump,  a  motor,  a  power  that  gives  action 
to  the  legs,  either  in  coming  or  in  going,  more  espe- 
cially in  going."  He  laughed.  "Well,  hers  is  the 
inspiration  and  hers  is  the  law.  And  to  think  that 
she  could  plan  all  this  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
down  to  the  minutest  detail!  It's  a  science."  He 
put  the  letter  away,  slid  out  his  legs  and  glared  at 
the  dusty  tips  of  his  shoes.  "The  United  Romance 
and  Adventure  Company,  Ltd.,  of  New  York,  Lon- 
don, and  Paris.  She  has  the  greatest  gift  of  all,  the 
sense  of  humor." 

He  rose  and  opened  his  kit-bag  doubtfully.     He 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  29 

rummaged  about  in  the  depths  and  at  last  straight- 
ened up  with  a  mild  oath. 

"Not  a  pair  of  cuffs  in  the  whole  outfit,  not  a 
shirt,  not  a  collar.  Oh,  well,  when  a  man  has  to 
leave  Bagdad  the  way  I  did,  over  the  back  fence,  so 
to  speak,  linen  doesn't  count." 

He  drew  down  his  cuffs,  detached  and  reversed 
them,  he  turned  his  folding  collar  wrong-side  out, 
and  used  the  under  side  of  the  foot-rug  as  a  shoe- 
polisher.  It  was  the  ingenius  procedure  of  a  man 
who  was  used  to  being  out  late  of  nights,  who  made 
all  things  answer  all  purposes.  This  rapid  and 
singularly  careless  toilet  completed,  he  centered  his 
concern  upon  the  more  vital  matter  of  finances.  He 
was  close  to  the  nadir :  four  sovereigns,  a  florin,  and 
a  collection  of  battered  coppers  that  would  have 
tickled  the  pulse  of  an  amateur  numismatist. 

"No  vintage  to-night,  my  boy;  no  long,  fat  Ha- 
vana, either.  A  bottle  of  stout  and  a  few  rags  of 
'plug-cut;  that's  the  pace  we'll  travel  this  evening. 
The  United  Romance  and  Adventure  Company  is  not 
listed  at  present.  If  it  was,  I'd  sell  a  few  shares  on 
my  own  hook.  The  kind  Lord  knows  that  I've  stock 
enough  and  to  spare."  He  laughed  again,  but  with- 


30    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

out  the  leaven  of  humor.  "When  the  fool-killer 
snatches  up  the  last  fool,  let  rogues  look  to  them- 
selves ;  and  fools  are  getting  scarcer  every  day. 

"Percival  Algernon !  O  age  of  poets !  I  wonder, 
does  he  wear  high  collars  and  spats,  or  has  she 
plumbed  him  accurately  ?  She  is  generally  right.  But 
a  man  changes  some  in  seven  years.  I'm  an  author- 
ity when  it  comes  to  that.  Look  what's  happened  to 
me  in  seven  years!  First,  Horace,  we  shall  dine, 
then  we'll  smoke  our  pipe  in  the  billiard-room,  then 
we'll  softly  approach  Percival  Algernon  and  intro- 
duce him  to  Sinbad.  This  independent  excursion 
to  Bagdad  was  a  stroke  on  my  part;  it  will  work 
into  the  general  plan  as  smoothly  as  if  it  had  been 
grooved  for  the  part.  Sinbad.  I  might  just  as  well 
have  assumed  that  name:  Horace  Sinbad,  sounds 
well  and  looks  well."  He  mused  in  silence,  his  hand 
gently  rubbing  his  chin ;  for  he  did  possess  the  trick 
of  talking  aloud,  in  a  low  monotone,  a  habit  ac- 
quired during  periods  of  loneliness,  when  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice  had  succeeded  in  steadying  his 
tottering  mind. 

What  a  woman,  what  a  wife,  she  would  have  been 
to  the  right  man !  Odd  thing,  a  man  can  do  almost 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  31 

anything  but  direct  his  affections;  they  must  be 
drawn.  She  was  not  for  him;  nay,  not  even  on  a 
desert  isle.  Doubtless  he  was  a  fool.  In  time  she 
would  have  made  him  a  rich  man.  Alack!  It  was 
always  the  one  we  pursued  that  we  loved  and  never 
the  one  that  pursued  us. 

"I'm  afraid  of  her ;  and  there  you  are.  There  isn't 
a  man  living  who  has  gone  back  of  that  Mona  Lisa 
smile  of  hers.  If  she  was  the  last  woman  and  I  was 
the  last  man,  I  don't  say."  He  hunted  for  a  ciga- 
rette, but  failed  to  find  one.  "Almost  at  the  bottom, 
boy;  the  winter  of  our  discontent,  and  no  sun  of 
York  to  make  it  glorious.  Twenty-four  hundred 
at  cards,  and  to  lose  it  like  a  tyro!  Wallace  has 
taught  me  all  he  knows,  but  I'm  a  booby.  Twenty- 
four  hundred,  firm's  money.  It's  a  failing  of  mine, 
the  firm's  money.  But,  damn  it  all,  I  can't  cheat  a 
man  at  cards ;  I'd  rather  cut  his  throat." 

He  found  his  pipe,  and  a  careful  search  of  the  cor- 
ners of  his  coat-pockets  revealed  a  meager  pipeful 
of  tobacco.  He  picked  out  the  little  balls  of  wool, 
the  ground-coffee,  the  cloves,  and  pushed  the  charge 
home  into  the  crusted  bowl  of  his  briar. 

"To  the  devil  with  economy !    A  pint  of  burgundy 


33 

and  a  perfecto  if  they  hale  us  to  jail  for  it.  I'm 
dead  tired.  I've  seen  three  corners  in  hell  in  the 
past  two  months.  I'm  going  as  far  as  four  sove- 
reigns will  take  me.  .  .  .  Fortune  Chedsoye." 
His  blue  eyes  became  less  hard  and  his  mouth  less 
defiant.  "I  repeat,  the  heart  should  be  nothing  but 
a  pump.  Otherwise  it  gets  in  the  way,  becomes  an 
obstruction,  a  bottomless  pit.  Will-power,  that's  the 
ticket.  I  can  face  a  lion  without  an  extra  beat,  I  can 
face  the  various  countenances  of  death  without  an 
additional  flutter;  and  yet,  here's  a  girl  who,  when 
I  see  her  or  think  of  her,  sends  the  pulse  soaring  from 
seventy-seven  up  to  eighty-four.  Bad  business;  be- 
sides, it's  so  infernally  unfashionable.  It's  hard  work 
for  a  man  to  keep  his  balance  'twixt  the  devil  and  the 
deep,  blue  sea;  Gioconda  on  one  side  and  Fortune 
on  the  other.  Gioconda  throws  open  windows  and 
doors  at  my  approach;  but  Fortune  locks  and  bars 
hers,  nor  knocks  at  mine.  That's  the  way  it  always 
goes. 

"If  a  man  could  only  go  back  ten  years  and  take  a 
new  start.  Ass !"  balling  his  fist  at  the  reflection  in 
the  mirror.  "Snivel  and  whine  over  the  bed  of  your 
own  making.  You  had  your  opportunity,  but  you 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  33 

listened  to  the  popping  of  champagne-corks,  the  mut- 
ter of  cards,  the  inane  drivel  of  chorus-ladies.  You 
had  a  decent  college  record,  too.  Bah!  What  a 
guileless  fool  you  were !  You  ran  on,  didn't  you,  till 
you  found  your  neck  in  the  loop  at  the  end  of  the 
rope?  And  perhaps  that  soft-footed,  estimable 
brother  of  yours  didn't  yank  it  taut  as  a  hangman's  ? 
You  heard  the  codicil;  into  one  ear  and  out  the 
other.  Even  then  you  had  your  chance ;  patience  for 
two  short  years,  and  a  million.  No,  a  thousand 
times  no.  You  knew  what  you  were  about,  empty- 
headed  fool!  And  to-day,  two  pennies  for  a  dead 
man's  eyes." 

He  dropped  his  fist  dejectedly.  Where  had  the 
first  step  begun  ?  And  where  would  be  the  last  ?  In 
some  drab  corner,  possibly;  drink,  morphine,  or 
starvation;  he'd  never  have  the  courage  to  finish  it 
with  a  bullet.  He  was  terribly  bitter.  Everything 
worth  while  seemed  to  have  slipped  through  his  fin- 
gers, his  pleasure-loving  fingers. 

"Come,  come,  Horace;  buck  up.  Still  the  ruby 
kindles  in  the  vine.  No  turning  back  now.  We'll 
go  on  till  we  come  bang!  against  the  wall.  There 
may  be  some  good  bouts  between  here  and  there.  I 


34    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

wonder  what  Gioconda  would  say  if  she  knew  why 
I  was  so  eager  for  this  game?" 

He  went  down  to  dinner,  and  they  gave  him  a 
table  in  an  obscure  corner,  as  a  subtle  reminder  that 
his  style  was  passe.  He  didn't  care ;  he  was  hungry 
and  thirsty.  He  could  see  nearly  every  one,  even  if 
only  a  few  could  see  him.  This  was  somewhat  to  his 
vantage.  He  endeavored  to  pick  out  Percival  Alger- 
non ;  but  there  were  too  many  high  collars,  too  many 
monocles.  So  he  contented  himself  with  a  mild 
philosophical  observance  of  the  scene.  The  murmur 
of  voices,  rising  as  the  wail  of  the  violins  sank,  sink- 
ing as  the  wail  rose;  the  tinkle  of  glass  and  china, 
the  silver  and  linen,  the  pretty  women  in  their  rust- 
ling gowns,  the  delicate  perfumes,  the  flash  of  an 
arm,  the  glint  of  a  polished  shoulder:  this  was  the 
essence  of  life  he  coveted.  He  smiled  at  the  thought 
and  the  sure  knowledge  that  he  was  not  the  only 
wolf  in  the  fold.  Ay,  and  who  among  these  dainty 
Red  Riding  Hoods  might  be  fooled  by  a  vulpine 
grandmother?  Truth,  when  a  fellow  winnowed  it 
all  down  to  a  handful,  there  were  only  fools  and 
rogues.  If  one  was  a  fool,  the  rogue  got  you,  and 
he  in  turn  devoured  himself. 


AN  AFFABLE  ROGUE  35 

He  held  his  glass  toward  the  table-lamp,  moved  it 
slowly  to  and  fro  under  his  nose,  epicureanly;  then 
he  sipped  the  wine.  Something  like !  It  ran  across 
his  tongue  and  down  his  throat  in  tingling  fire,  nec- 
tarious;  and  he  went  half  way  to  Olympus,  to  the 
feet  of  the  gods.  For  weeks  he  had  lived  in  the 
vilest  haunts,  in  desperate  straits,  his  life  in  his  open 
hands ;  and  now  once  more  he  had  crawled  from  the 
depths  to  the  outer  crust  of  the  world.  It  did  not 
matter  that  he  was  destined  to  go  down  into  the 
depths  again;  so  long  as  the  spark  burned  he  was 
going  to  crawl  back  each  time.  Damnable  luck !  He 
could  have  lived  like  a  prince.  Twenty-four  hun- 
dred, and  all  in  two  nights,  a  steady  stream  of  gold 
into  the  pockets  of  men  whom  he  could  have  cheated 
with  consummate  ease,  and  didn't.  A  fine  wolf, 
whose  predatory  instincts  were  still  riveted  to  that 
obsolete  thing  called  conscience ! 

"Conscience?  Rot!  Let  us  for  once  be  frank 
and  write  it  down  as  caution,  as  fear  of  publicity, 
anything  but  the  white  guardian-angel  of  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul.  Heap  up  the  gold,  Apollyon ;  heap 
it  up,  higher  and  higher,  till  not  a  squeak  of  that  still 
small  voice  that  once  awoke  the  chap  in  the  Old 


36    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Testament  can  ever  again  be  heard.  Now,  no  more 
retrospection,  Horace;  no  more  analysis;  the  vital 
question  simmers  down  to  this:  If  Percival  Alger- 
non balks,  how  far  will  four  sovereigns  go  ?" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  HOLY  YHIORDES 

GEORGE  drank  his  burgundy  perfunctorily. 
Had  it  been  astringent  as  the  native  wine  of 
Corsica,  he  would  not  have  noticed  it.  The  little 
nerves  that  ran  from  his  tongue  to  his  brain  had 
temporarily  lost  the  power  of  communication.  And 
all  because  of  the  girl  across  the  way.  He  couldn't 
keep  his  eyes  from  wandering  in  her  direction.  She 
faced  him  diagonally.  She  ate  but  little,  and  when 
the  elderly  gentleman  poured  out  for  her  a  glass  of 
sauterne,  she  motioned  it  aside,  rested  her  chin  upon 
her  folded  hands,  and  stared  not  at  but  through  her 
vis-a-vis. 

It  was  a  lovely  head,  topped  with  coils  of  lus- 
trous, light  brown  hair;  an  oval  face,  of  white  and 
rose  and  ivory  tones;  scarlet  lips,  a  small,  regular 
nose,  and  a  chin  the  soft  roundness  of  which  hid 

37 


38   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

the  resolute  lift  to  it.  To  these  attributes  of  loveli- 
ness was  added  a  perfect  form,  the  long,  flowing 
curves  of  youth,  not  the  abrupt  contours  of  maturity. 
George  couldn't  recollect  when  he  had  been  so  im- 
pressed by  a  face.  From  the  moment  she  had  stepped 
down  from  the  carriage,  his  interest  had  been  drawn, 
and  had  grown  to  such  dimensions  that  when  he 
entered  the  dining-room  his  glance  immediately 
searched  for  her  table.  What  luck  in  finding  her 
across  the  way !  He  questioned  if  he  had  ever  seen 
her  before.  There  was  something  familiar ;  the  deli- 
cate profile  stirred  some  sleeping  memory  but  did  not 
wake  it. 

How  to  meet  her,  and  when  he  did  meet  her, 
how  to  interest  her?  If  she  would  only  drop  her 
handkerchief,  her  purse,  something  to  give  him  an 
excuse,  an  opening.  Ah,  he  was  certain  that  this 
time  the  hydra-headed  one  should  not  overcome  him. 
To  gain  her  attention  and  to  hold  it,  he  would  have 
faced  a  lion,  a  tiger,  a  wild-elephant.  To  diagnose 
these  symptoms  might  not  be  fair  to  George.  "Love 
at  first  sight"  reads  well  and  sounds  well,  but  we 
hoary-headed  philosophers  know  that  the  phrase  is 
only  poetical  license. 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  39 

Once,  and  only  once,  she  looked  in  his  direction. 
It  swept  over  him  with  the  chill  of  a  winter  wind 
that  he  meant  as  much  to  her  as  a  tree,  a  fence,  a 
meadow,  as  seen  from  the  window  of  a  speeding 
railway  train.  But  this  observation,  transient  as  it 
was,  left  with  him  the  indelible  impression  that  her 
eyes  were  the  saddest  he  had  ever  seen.  Why? 
Why  should  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  hate  eyes 
like  that?  It  could  not  mean  physical  weariness, 
else  the  face  would  in  some  way  have  expressed  it. 
The  elderly  man  appeared  to  do  his  best  to  animate 
her ;  he  was  kindly  and  courteous,  and  by  the  gentle 
way  he  laughed  at  intervals  was  trying  to  bolster 
up  the  situation  with  a  jest  or  two.  The  girl  never 
so  much  as  smiled,  or  shrugged  her  shoulders;  she 
was  as  responsive  to  these  overtures  as  marble  would 
have  been. 

George's  romance  gathered  itself  for  a  flight. 
Perhaps  it  was  love  thwarted,  and  the  gentleman 
with  the  mustache  and  imperial,  in  spite  of  his  ami- 
ability, might  be  the  ogre.  Perhaps  it  was  love  and 
duty.  Perhaps  her  lover  had  gone  down  to  sea. 
Perhaps  (for  lovers  are  known  to  do  such  things) 
he  had  run  away  with  the  other  girl.  If  that  was 


4Q        [THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

the  case,  George  did  not  think  highly  of  that  tenta- 
tive gentleman's  taste.  Perhaps  and  perhaps  again ; 
but  George  might  have  gone  on  perhapsing  till  the 
crack  o'  doom,  with  never  a  solitary  glimmer  of  the 
true  state  of  the  girl's  mind.  Whenever  he  saw  an 
unknown  man  or  woman  who  attracted  his  atten- 
tion, he  never  could  resist  the  impulse  to  invent  a 
romance  that  might  apply. 

Immediately  after  dessert  the  two  rose;  and 
George,  finding  that  nothing  more  important  than  a 
pineapple  ice  detained  him,  got  up  and  followed. 
Mr.  Ryanne  almost  trod  on  his  heels  as  they  went 
through  the  doorway  into  the  cosy  lounging-room. 
George  dropped  into  a  vacant  divan  and  waited  for 
his  cafe  a  la  Turque.  Mr.  Ryanne  walked  over  to 
the  head-porter's  bureau  and  asked  if  that  gentleman 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  point  out  Mr.  George  P.  A. 
Jones,  if  he  were  anywhere  in  sight.  He  thought- 
fully, not  to  say  regretfully,  laid  down  a  small  bribe. 

"Mr.  Jones?"  The  porter  knew  Mr.  Jones  very 
well.  He  was  generous,  and  treated  the  servants 
as  though  they  were  really  human  beings.  Mr. 
Ryanne,  either  by  his  inquiry  or  as  the  result  of  his 
bribe,  went  up  several  degrees  in  the  porter's  estima- 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  41 

tion.  "Mr.  Jones  is  over  there,  on  the  divan  by 
the  door." 

"Thanks." 

But  Ryanne  did  not  then  seek  the  young  man.  He 
studied  the  quarry  from  a  diplomatic  distance.  No ; 
there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  George  Percival 
Algernon  Jones  was  in  any  way  handicapped  by  his 
Arthuresque  middle  names. 

"No  fool,  as  Gioconda  in  her  infinite  wisdom  hath 
said;  but  romantic,  terribly  romantic,  yet,  like  the 
timid  bather  who  puts  a  foot  into  the  water,  finds 
it  cold,  and  withdraws  it.  It  will  all  depend  upon 
whether  he  is  a  real  collector  or  merely  a  buyer  of 
rugs.  Forward,  then,  Horace;  a  sovereign  has  al- 
ready dashed  headlong  down  the  far  horizon."  The 
curse  of  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud  did  not  lie 
heavily  upon  him  to-night,  for  these  cogitations 
were  made  in  silence,  unmarked  by  any  facial  ex- 
pression. He  proceeded  across  the  room  and  sat 
down  beside  George.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  be- 
gan, "but  are  you  not  Mr.  Jones?" 

Mildly  astonished,  George  signified  that  he  was. 

"George  P.  A.  Jones?" 

George  nodded  again,  but  with  some  heat  in  his 


42   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

cheeks.  "Yes.  What  is  it?"  The  girl  had  just 
finished  her  coffee  and  was  going  away.  Hang  this 
fellow!  What  did  he  want  at  this  moment? 

If  Ryanne  saw  that  he  was  too  much,  as  the 
French  say,  he  also  perceived  the  cause.  The  desire 
to  shake  George  till  his  teeth  rattled  was  instantly 
overcome.  She  hadn't  seen  him,  and  for  this  he 
was  grateful.  "You  are  interested  in  rugs  ?  I  mean 
old  ones,  rare  ones,  rugs  that  are  bought  once  and 
seldom  if  ever  sold  again." 

"Why,  yes.  That's  my  business."  George  had 
no  silly  ideas  about  trade.  He  had  never  posed  as 
a  gentleman's  son  in  the  sense  that  it  meant  idleness. 

Ryanne  presented  his  card. 

"How  do  you  pronounce  it?"  asked  George 
naively. 

"As  they  do  in  Cork." 

"I  never  saw  it  spelled  that  way  before." 

"Nothing  surprising  in  that,"  replied  Ryanne. 
"No  one  else  has,  either." 

George  laughed  and  waited  for  the  explanation. 

"You  see,  Ryan  is  as  good  a  name  as  they  make 
them;  but  it  classes  with  prize-fighters,  politicians, 
and  bar  chemists.  The  two  extra  letters  put  the 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  43 

finishing  touch  to  the  name.  A  jewel  is  all  right, 
but  what  tells  is  the  way  you  hang  it  round  your 
neck.  To  me,  those  additional  letters  represent  the 
jewel  Ryan  in  the  hands  of  a  Lalique." 

"You  talk  like  an  American." 

"I  am;  three  generations.  What's  the  matter?" 
with  sudden  concern. 

George  was  frowning.  "Haven't  I  met  you  some- 
where before?" 

"Not  to  my  recollection."  A  speculative  frown 
now  marred  Ryanne's  forehead.  It  did  not  illus- 
trate a  search  in  his  memory  for  such  a  casualty  as 
the  meeting  of  George.  He  never  forgot  a  face  and 
certainly  did  not  remember  George's.  Rather,  the 
frown  had  its  source  in  the  mild  dread  that  Percival 
Algernon  had  seen  him  somewhere  during  one  of 
those  indispositions  of  the  morning  after.  "No; 
I  think  you  have  made  a  mistake," 

"Likely  enough.  It  just  struck  me  that  you  looked 
something  like  a  chap  named  Wadsworth,  who  was 
half-back  on  the  varsity,  when  I  entered  my  fresh- 
man year." 

"A  university  man?  Lord,  no!  I  was  turned 
loose  at  ten;  been  hustling  ever  since."  Ryanne 


44    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

spoke  easily,  not  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  although  he 
had  received  a  slight  mental  jolt.  "No;  no  college 
record  here.  But  I  want  to  chat  with  you  about 
rugs.  I've  heard  of  you,  indirectly." 

"From  the  carpet  fellows?  We  do  a  big  business 
over  here.  What  have  you  got?" 

"Well,  I've  a  rug  up  in  my  room  I'd  like  to  show 
you.  I  want  your  judgment  for  one  thing.  Will 
you  do  me  the  favor  ?" 

Since  the  girl  had  disappeared  and  with  her  those 
imaginary  appurtenances  that  had  for  a  space  trans- 
formed the  lounging-room  into  a  stage,  George  saw 
again  with  normal  vision  that  the  room  was  simply 
a  common  meeting-ground  for  well-dressed  persons 
and  ill-dressed  persons,  of  the  unimpeachable,  the  im- 
peccable, the  doubtful  and  the  peccant ;  for  in  Cairo, 
as  in  ancient  Egypt,  there  is  every  class  and  kind 
of  humans,  for  whom  the  Decalogue  was  written, 
transcribed,  and  shattered  by  the  turbulent  Moses,  an 
incident  more  or  less  forgotten  these  days.  From  the 
tail  of  his  eye  he  gave  swift  scrutiny  to  this  chance 
acquaintance,  and  he  found  nothing  to  warrant  sus- 
picion. It  was  not  an  unusual  procedure  for  men  to 
hunt  him  up  in  Cairo,  in  Constantinople,  in  Smyrna, 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  45 

or  in  any  of  the  Oriental  cities  where  his  business 
itinerary  led  him.  The  house  of  Mortimer  &  Jones 
was  widely  known.  This  man  Ryanne  might  have 
been  anywhere  between  thirty  and  forty.  He  was 
tall,  well  set  up,  blond  and  smooth-skinned.  True, 
he  appeared  to  have  been  ill-fed  recently.  A  little 
more  flesh  under  the  cheek-bones,  a  touch  of  color, 
and  the  Irishman  would  have  been  a  handsome  man. 
George  could  read  a  rug  a  league  off,  as  they  say, 
but  he  was  a  child  in  the  matter  of  physiognomy, 
whereas  Ryanne  was  a  past-master  in  this  regard; 
it  was  'necessary  both  for  his  business  and  safety. 

"Certainly,  I'll  take  a  look  at  it.  But  I  tell  you 
frankly,"  went  on  George,  "that  to  interest  me  it's 
got  to  be  a  very  old  one.  You  see,  it's  a  little  fad 
of  mine,  outside  the  business  end  of  it.  I'm  crazy 
over  real  rugs,  and  I  know  something  about  every 
rare  one  in  existence,  or  known  to  exist.  Is  it  a 
copy?" 

"No.  I'll  tell  you  more  about  it  when  we  get  to 
my  room." 

"Come  on,  then."  George  was  now  quite  willing 
to  discuss  rugs  and  carpets. 

Having  gained  the  room,  Ryanne  threw  off  his 


46    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

coat  and  relighted  his  cigar,  which,  in  a  saving 
mood,  he  had  allowed  to  go  out.  He  motioned 
George  to  be  seated. 

"Just  a  little  yarn  before  I  show  you  the  rug.  See 
these  cuffs?" 

"Yes." 

"You  will  observe  that  I  have  had  to  reverse  them. 
Note  this  collar  ?  Same  thing.  Trousers-hems  a  bit 
frayed,  coat  shiny  at  the  elbows."  Ryanne  exhibited 
his  sole  fortune.  "Four  sovereigns  between  me  and 
a  jail." 

George  became  thoughtful.  He  was  generous  and 
kind-hearted  among  those  he  knew  intimately  or 
slightly,  but  he  had  the  instinctive  reserve  of  the 
seasoned  traveler  in  cases  like  this.  He  waited. 

"The  truth  is,  I'm  all  but  done  for.  And  if  I  fail 
to  strike  a  bargain  here  with  you.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  should  hate  to  tell  you  the  result.  Our  consul 
would  have  to  furnish  me  passage  home.  Were  you 
ever  up  against  it  to  the  extent  of  reversing  your 
cuffs  and  turning  your  collars?  You  don't  know 
what  life  is,  then." 

George  gravely  produced  two  good  cigars  and 
offered  one  to  his  host.  There  was  an  absence  of 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  47 

sound,  broken  presently  by  the  cheerful  crackle  of 
matches ;  two  billowing  clouds  of  smoke  floated  out- 
ward and  upward.  Ryanne  sighed.  Here  was  a 
cigar  one  could  not  purchase  in  all  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  Orient,  a  Pedro  Murias.  In  one  of 
his  doubtfully  prosperous  epochs  he  had  smoked 
them  daily.  How  long  ago  had  that  been  ? 

"Yonder  is  a  rug,  a  prayer-rug,  as  holy  to  the 
Moslem  as  the  idol's  eye  is  to  the  Hindu,  as  the 
Bible  is  to  the  Christian.  For  hundreds  of  years  it 
never  saw  the  outside  of  the  Sultan's  palace.  One 
day  the  late,  the  recently  late,  Abdul  the  Unspeakable 
Turk,  gave  it  to  the  Pasha  of  Bagdad.  Whenever 
this  rug  makes  its  appearance  in  Holy  Mecca,  it  is 
worshiped,  and  none  but  a  Sultan  or  a  Sultan's 
favorite  may  kneel  upon  it.  Bagdad,  the  hundred 
mosques,  the  old  capital  of  Suleiman  the  Great,  the 
dreary  Tigris  and  the  sluggish  Euphrates,  a  muezzin 
from  the  turret  calls  to  prayer,  and  all  that ;  eh  ?" 

George  leaned  forward  from  his  chair,  a  gentle 
terror  in  his  heart.  "The  Yhiordes?  By  Jove!  is 
that  the  Yhiordes  ?" 

Admiration  kindled  in  Ryanne's  eyes.  To  have 
hit  the  bull's-eye  with  so  free  and  quick  an  aim  was 


48   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ample  proof  that  Percival  Algernon  had  not  boasted 
when  he  said  that  he  knew  something  about  rugs. 

"You've  guessed  it." 

"How  did  you  come  by  it?"  George  demanded 
excitedly. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Man,  ten-thousand  pounds  could  not  purchase 
that  rug,  that  bit  of  carpet.  Collectors  from  every 
port  have  been  after  it  in  vain.  And  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  it  lies  there,  wrapped  in  butcher's 
paper?" 

"Right-O!" 

Ryanne  solemnly  detached  a  cuff  and  rolled  up  his 
sleeve.  The  bare  muscular  arm  was  scarred  by  two 
long,  ugly  knife-wounds,  scarcely  healed.  Next  he 
drew  up  a  trousers-leg,  disclosing  a  battered  shin. 
"And  there's  another  on  my  shoulder-blade,  the 
closest  call  I  ever  had.  A  man  who  takes  his  life 
in  his  hands,  as  I  have  done,  merits  some  reward. 
Mr.  Jones,  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  am  a  kind  of 
derelict.  Since  I  was  a  boy,  I  have  hated  the  hum- 
drum of  offices,  of  shops.  I  wanted  to  be  my  own 
man,  to  go  and  come  as  I  pleased.  To  do  this  and 
live  meant  precarious  exploits.  This  rug  represents 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  49 

one  of  them.  I  am  telling-  you  the  family  secret ;  I  am 
showing  you  the  skeleton  in  the  closet,  confidentially. 
I  stole  that  rug ;  and  when  I  say  that  the  seven  labors 
of  our  old  friend  Hercules  were  simple  diversions 
compared,  you'll  recognize  the  difficulties  I  had  to 
overcome.  You  know  something  of  the  Oriental 
mind.  I  handled  the  job  alone.  I  may  not  be  out 
of  the  jungle  yet." 

George  listened  entranced.  He  could  readily  con- 
struct the  scenes  through  which  this  adventurer  had 
gone :  the  watchful  nights,  the  untiring  patience,  the 
thirst,  the  hunger,  the  heat.  And  yet,  he  could 
hardly  believe.  He  was  a  trifle  skeptical.  Many  a 
rogue  had  made  the  mistake  of  playing  George's 
age  against  his  experience.  He  had  made  some 
serious  blunders  in  the  early  stages  of  the  business, 
however;  and  everybody,  to  gain  something  in  the 
end,  must  lose  something  at  the  start 

"If  that  rug  is  the  one  I  have  in  mind,  you  cer- 
tainly have  stolen  it.  And  if  it's  a  copy,  I'll  tell 
you  quickly  enough." 

"That's  fair.  And  that's  why,"  Ryanne  declared, 
"I  wanted  you  to  look  at  it.  To  me,  considering 
what  I  have  gone  through  to  get  it,  to  me  it  is  the 


50    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

genuine  carpet.  To  your  expert  eye  it  may  be  only 
a  fine  copy.  I  know  this  much,  that  rare  rugs  and 
paintings  have  many  copies,  and  that  some  one  is 
being  hooked,  sold,  bamboozled,  sandbagged,  every 
day  in  the  week.  If  this  is  the  real  article,  I  want 
you  to  take  it  off  my  hands,"  the  adventurer  finished 
pleasantly. 

"There  will  be  a  hue  and  cry." 

"No  doubt  of  it." 

"And  the  devil's  own  job  to  get  it  out  of  Egypt." 
These  were  set  phrases  of  the  expert,  preliminaries 
to  bargaining.  "One  might  as  well  carry  round  a 
stolen  elephant." 

"But  a  man  who  is  as  familiar  with  the  game  as 
you  are  would  have  little  difficulty.  Your  integrity 
is  an  established  fact,  on  both  sides  of  the  water. 
You  could  take  it  to  New  York  as  a  copy,  and  no 
appraiser  would-  know  the  difference.  If  s  worth 
the  attempt.  I'd  take  it  to  New  York  myself,  but 
you  see,  I  am  flat  broke.  Come;  what  do  you  or 
I  care  about  a  son-of-a-gun  of  a  Turk?"  drolly. 

"What  do  you  want  for  it,  supposing  it's  gen- 
uine ?"  George's  throat  was  dry  and  his  voice  harsh. 
His  conscience  roused  herself,  feebly,  for  it  had  been 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  51 

a  long  tin:''  since  occasion  had  necessitated  her  pres- 
ence. 

Ryanne  narrcwed  his  eyes,  carefully  balancing 
the  possibilities.  "^?v,  one  thousand  pounds.  It  is 
like  giving  it  away.  Buf  when  the  devil  drives,  you 
know.  It  is  beyond  any  s=;t  price;  it  is  worth  what 
any  collector  is  willing  to  pay  for  it.  I  believe  I 
know  the  kind  of  man  you  are,  Mr.  Jones,  and 
that  is  why,  when  I  learned  you  were  in  Cairo,  I 
came  directly  to  you.  You.  would  never  sell  this 
rug.  No.  You  would  become  like  a  miser  over  his 
gold.  You  would  keep  it  with  your  emeralds  (I 
have  heard  about  them,  too)  ;  draw  the  curtains, 
lock  the  doors,  whenever  you  looked  at  it.  Eh? 
You  would  love  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  because 
it  is  worth  so  many  thousand  pounds.  You  are  sail- 
ing in  a  few  days ;  that  will  help.  The  Pasha  is  in 
Constantinople,  and  it  will  be  three  or  four  weeks 
before  he  hears  of  the  theft,  or  the  cost,"  with  a 
certain  grimness. 

"You  haven't  killed  any  one?"  whispered  George. 

"I  don't  know;  perhaps.  Christianity  against 
paganism;  the  Occidental  conscience  permits  it." 
Ryanne  made  a  gesture  to  indicate  that  he  would 


52   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

submit  to  whatever  moral  arraignmer*  Mr.  Jones 
deemed  advisable  to  make. 

But  George  made  none.  He  rose  hastily,  sought 
his  knife  and,  without  so  mneh  as  by  your  leave, 
slashed  the  twine,  flung  aci'de  the  paper,  and  threw 
the  rug  across  the  counterpane.  It  was  the  Yhior- 
des.  There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  his  mind. 
He  had  heard  it  described,  he  had  seen  a  photo- 
graph of  it,  he  knew  its  history  and,  most  vital  of 
all,  he  owned  a  good  copy  of  it. 

Against  temptation  that  was  robust  and  energetic 
and  alluring  (like  the  man  who  insists  upon  your 
having  a  drink  when  you  want  it  and  ought  not  to 
have  it),  what  chance  had  conscience,  grown  innoc- 
uous in  the  long  period  of  the  young  man's  good 
behavior?  Collectors  are  always  honest  before  and 
after  that  moment  arrives  when  they  want  some- 
thing desperately;  and  George  was  no  more  saintly 
than  his  kind.  And  how  deep  Ryanne  and  his  con- 
federates had  delved  into  human  nature,  how  well 
they  could  read  and  judge  it,  was  made  manifest  in 
this  moment  of  George's  moral  relapse. 

Bagdad,  the  jinns,  Sinbad,  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights,  Alibaba  and  the  Forty  Thieves :  George  was 


THE  HOLY  YHIORDES  53 

transported  mentally  to  that  magic  city,  standing  be- 
tween the  Tigris  and  the  Euphrates,  in  all  its  white 
glory  of  a  thousand  years  gone.  Ryanne,  the  room 
and  its  furnishings,  all  had  vanished,  all  save  the 
exquisite  fabric  patterned  out  of  wool  and  cotton 
and  knotted  with  that  mingling  love  and  skill  and 
patience  the  world  knows  no  more.  He  let  his  hand 
stray  over  it.  How  many  knees  had  pressed  its 
thick  yet  pliant  substance?  How  many  strange 
scenes  had  it  mutely  witnessed,  scenes  of  beauty,  of 
terror?  It  shone  under  the  light  like  the  hide  of  a 
healthy  hound. 

The  nerves  of  a  smoker  are  generally  made  ap- 
parent by  the  rapidity  of  his  exhalations.  These 
two,  in  the  several  minutes,  had  filled  the  room  with 
a  thick,  blue  haze;  and  through  this  the  elder  man 
eyed  the  younger.  The  sign  of  the  wolf  gleamed 
in  his  eyes,  but  without  animosity,  modified  as  it 
was  by  the  half-friendly,  half-cynical  smile. 

"I'll  risk  it,"  said  George  finally,  having  stepped 
off  the  magical  carpet,  as  it  were.  "I  can't  give  you 
a  thousand  pounds  to-night.  I  can  give  you  three 
hundred,  and  the  balance  to-morrow,  between  ten 
and  eleven,  at  Cook's." 


54   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD     t 

"That  will  be  agreeable  to  me." 

George  passed  over  all  the  available  cash  he  had, 
rolled  up  the  treasure  and  tucked  it  under  his  arm. 
That  somewhere  in  the  world  was  a  true  believer, 
wailing  and  beating  his  breast  and  calling  down 
from  Allah  curses  upon  the  giaour,  the  dog  of  an 
infidel,  who  had  done  this  thing,  disturbed  George 
not  in  the  least. 

"I  say,"  as  he  opened  the  door,  "you  must  tell 
me  all  about  the  adventure.  It  must  have  been  a 
thriller." 

"It  was,"  replied  Ryanne.  "The  story  will  keep. 
Later,  if  you  care  to  hear  it." 

"Of  course,"  added  George,  moved  by  a  discre- 
tionary thought,  "this  transaction  is  just  between 
you  and  me." 

"You  may  lay  odds  on  that,"  heartily.  "Well, 
good  night.  See  you  at  Cook's  in  the  morning." 

"Good  night."  George  passed  down  the  corridor 
to  the  adjoining  room. 

And  now,  bang!  goes  Pandora's  box. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE 

THAT  faculty  which  decides  on  the  lawlessness 
of  our  actions :  so  the  noted  etymologist  de- 
scribed conscience.  It  fell  to  another  distinguished 
intellect  to  add  that  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us 
all.  Ay.  She  may  be  overcome  at  times,  side- 
tracked for  any  special  desire  that  demands  a  clear 
way;  but  she's  after  us,  fast  enough,  with  that  bat- 
tered red  lantern  of  hers,  which,  brought  down  from 
all  tongues  crisply  into  our  own,  reads — "Don't  do 
it!"  She  herself  is  not  wholly  without  cunning. 
She  rarely  stands  boldly  upon  the  track  to  flag  us 
as  we  come.  She  realizes  that  she  might  be  perma- 
nently ditched.  No;  it  is  far  safer  to  run  after  us 
and  catch  us.  A  digression,  perhaps,  but  more 
pertinently  an  application. 

Temptation    then    no    longer    at    his    shoulder, 
55 


56    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

George  began  to  have  qualms,  little  chaps,  who 
started  buzzing  into  his  moral  ears  with  all  that 
maddening,  interminable  drone  which  makes  one 
marvel  however  do  school-teachers  survive  their 
first  terms.  Among  these  qualms  there  was  none 
that  pleaded  for  the  desolate  Turk  or  his  minions 
whose  carelessness  had  made  the  theft  possible.  For 
all  George  cared,  the  Moslem  might  grind  his  fore- 
head in  the  soulless  sand  and  make  the  air  palpitate 
with  his  plaints  to  Allah.  No.  The  disturbance 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  never  before  had  he  been 
wittingly  the  purchaser  of  stolen  goods.  He  never 
tried  to  gloze  over  the  subtle  distinction  between 
knowing  and  suspecting;  and  if  he  had  been  vari- 
ously suspicious  in  regard  to  certain  past  bargains, 
conscience  had  found  no  sizeable  wedge  for  her  de- 
murrers. The  Yhiordes  was  confessedly  stolen. 

He  paused,  with  his  hand  upon  the  door-knob  of 
his  room.  If  he  didn't  keep  the  rug,  it  would  fall 
into  the  hands  of  a  collector  less  scrupulous.  To  re- 
turn it  to  the  Pasha  at  Bagdad  would  be  pure  folly, 
and  thankless.  It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
weavings  in  existence.  It  was  as  priceless  in  its 
way  as  any  Raphael  in  the  Vatican.  And  he  desired 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  57 

its  possession  intensely.  Why  not?  Insidious 
phrase!  Was  it  not  better  that  the  world  should 
see  and  learn  what  a  wonderful  craft  the  making  of 
a  rare  rug  had  been,  than  to  allow  it  to  return  to 
the  sordid  chamber  of  a  harem,  to  inevitable  ruin? 
As  Ryanne  said,  what  the  deuce  was  a  fanatical 
Turk  or  Arab  to  him? 

Against  these  specious  arguments  in  favor  of  be- 
coming the  adventurer's  abettor  and  accomplice, 
there  was  first  the  possible  stain  of  blood.  The 
man  agreed  that  he  had  come  away  from  Bagdad 
in  doubt.  George  did  not  like  the  thought  of 
blood.  Still,  he  had  collected  a  hundred  emeralds, 
not  one  of  which  was  without  its  red  record. 
Again,  if  he  carried  the  rug  home  with  his  other 
purchases,  he  could  pull  it  through  the  customs 
only  by  lying,  which  was  as  distasteful  to  his  mind 
as  being  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods. 

He  had  already  paid  a  goodly  sum  against  the 
purchase;  and  it  was  not  likely  that  a  man  who 
was  down  to  reversing  his  collars  and  cuffs  would 
take  back  the  rug  and  refund  the  money.  The 
Yhiordes  was  his,  happen  what  might.  So  con- 
science snuffed  out  her  red  lantern  and  retired. 


58   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Some  light  steps,  a  rustle,  and  he  wheeled  in 
time  to  see  a  woman  open  a  door,  stand  for  a 
minute  in  the  full  light,  and  disappear.  It  was 
she.  George  opened  the  door  of  his  own  room, 
threw  the  rug  inside,  and  tiptoed  along  the  corri- 
dor, stopping  for  the  briefest  time  to  ascertain  the 
number  of  that  room.  He  felt  vastly  more  guilty 
in  performing  this  harmless  act  than  in  smothering 
his  mentor. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  head-porter's  bureau; 
thus,  unobserved  and  unembarrassed,  he  was  free 
to  inspect  the  guest-list.  Fortune  Chedsoye.  He 
had  never  seen  a  name  quite  like  that.  Its  quaint- 
ness  did  not  suggest  to  him,  as  it  had  done  to 
Ryanne,  the  pastoral,  the  bucolic.  Rather  it  re- 
minded him  of  the  old  French  cou.rts,  of  rapiers 
and  buckles,  of  powdered  wigs  and  furbelows, 
masks,  astrologers,  love-intrigues,  of  all  those  color- 
ful, mutable  scenes  so  charmingly  described  by  the 
genial  narrator  of  the  exploits  of  D'Artagnan.  And 
abruptly  out  of  this  age  of  Lebrun,  Watteau,  Mo- 
Here,  reached  an  ice-cold  hand.  If  that  elderly 
codger  wasn't  her  father,  who  was  he  and  what? 

The  Major — for  George  had  looked  him  up  also — 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  59 

was  in  excellent  trim  for  his  age,  something  of  a 
military  dandy  besides;  but  as  the  husband  of  so 
young  and  exquisite  a  creature!  Out  upon  the 
thought!  He  might  be  her  guardian,  or,  at  most, 
her  uncle,  but  never  her  husband.  Yet  (O  poison- 
ous doubt!),  at  the  table  she  had  ignored  the  Major, 
both  his  jests  and  his  attentions.  He  had  seen 
many  wives,  joyfully  from  a  safe  distance,  act  to- 
ward their  husbands  in  this  fashion.  Oh,  rot!  If 
his  name  was  Callahan  and  hers  Chedsoye,  they 
could  not  possibly  be  tied  in  any  legal  bonds.  He 
dismissed  the  ice-cold  hand  and  turned  again  to  the 
comforting  warmth  of  his  ardor. 

He  had  never  spoken  to  young  women  without 
presentation,  and  on  these  rare  occasions  he  had 
broached  the  weather,  suggested  the  possibilities  of 
the  weather,  and  concluded  with  an  apostrophe  on 
the  weather  at  large.  It  was  usually  a  valedictory. 
For  he  was  always  positive  that  he  had  acted  like 
a  fool,  and  was  afraid  to  speak  to  the  girl  again. 
Never  it  failed,  ten  minutes  after  the  girl  was  out 
of  sight,  the  brightest  and  cleverest  things  crowded 
upon  his  tongue,  to  be  but  wasted  on  the  desert 
air.  He  was  not  particularly  afraid  of  women  older 


60    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

than  himself,  more's  the  pity.  And  yet,  had  he  been 
as  shy  toward  them  as  toward  the  girls,  there  would 
have  been  no  stolen  Yhiordes,  no  sad-eyed  maiden, 
no  such  thing  as  The  United  Romance  and  Adven- 
ture Company,  Ltd. ;  and  he  would  have  stepped 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way,  unknown  of  grand  pas- 
sions, swift  adventure,  life. 

George  was  determined  to  meet  Fortune  Ched- 
soye,  and  this  determination,  the  first  of  its  kind 
to  take  definite  form  in  his  mind,  gave  him  a  novel 
sensation.  He  would  find  some  way,  and  he  vowed 
to  best  his  old  enemy,  diffidence,  if  it  was  the  last 
fight  he  ever  put  up.  He  would  manceuver  to  get 
in  the  way  of  the  Major.  He  never  found  much 
trouble  in  talking  to  men.  Once  he  exchanged  a 
word  or  two  with  the  uncle  or  guardian,  he  would 
make  it  a  point  to  renew  the  acquaintance  when 
he  saw  the  two  together.  It  appeared  to  him  as  a 
bright  idea,  and  he  was  rather  proud  of  it.  Even 
now  he  was  conscious  of  clenching  his  teeth  strongly. 
It's  an  old  saying  that  he  goes  farthest  who  shuts 
his  teeth  longest.  He  was  going  to  test  the  pre- 
cept by  immediate  practice. 

He  had  stood  before  the  list  fully  three  minutes. 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  61 

Now  he  turned  about  face,  a  singular  elation  ting- 
ling his  blood.  Once  he  set  his  mind  upon  a  thing, 
he  went  forward.  He  had  lost  many  pleasurable 
things  in  life  because  he  had  doubted  and  faltered, 
not  because  he  had  reached  out  toward  them  and 
had  then  drawn  back.  He  was  going  to  meet 
Fortune  Chedsoye;  when  or  how  were  but  details. 
And  as  he  discovered  the  Major  himself  idling  be- 
fore the  booth  of  the  East  Indian  merchant,  he  saw 
in  fancy  the  portcullis  rise  and  the  drawbridge  fall 
to  the  castle  of  enchantment.  He  strolled  over 
leisurely  and  pretended  to  be  interested  in  the  case 
containing  mediocre  jewels. 

"This  is  a  genuine  Bokhara  embroidery?"  the 
Major  was  inquiring. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"How  old?" 

The  merchant  picked  up  the  tag  and  squinted  at 
it.  "It  is  between  two  and  three  hundred  years 
old,  sir." 

To  George's  opinion  the  gods  themselves  could 
not  have  arranged  a  more  propitious  moment. 

"You've  made  a  mistake,"  he  interposed  quietly. 
"That  is  Bokhara,  but  the  stitch  is  purely  modern." 


&j   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  Indian  flashed.  "The  gentle- 
man is  an  authority?"  sarcastically. 

"Upon  that  style  of  embroidery,  absolutely." 
George  smiled.  And  then,  without  more  ado,  he 
went  on  to  explain  the  difference  between  the  antique 
and  the  modern.  "You  have  one  good  piece  of  old 
Bokhara,  but  it  isn't  rare.  Twenty-pounds  would 
be  a  good  price  for  it." 

The  Major  laughed  heartily.  "And  just  this 
moment  he  asked  a  hundred  for  it.  I'm  not  much 
of  a  hand  in  judging  these  things.  I  admire  them, 
but  have  no  intimate  knowledge  regarding  their 
worth.  Nothing  to-night,"  he  added  to  the  bitter- 
eyed  merchant.  "The  Oriental  is  like  the  amateur 
fisherman:  truth  is  not  in  him.  You  seem  to  be  a 
keen  judge,"  as  they  moved  away  from  the  booth. 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  inordinately  fond  of 
the  things.  I've  really  a  good  collection  of  Bokhara 
embroideries  at  home  in  New  York." 

"You  live  in  New  York?"  with  mild  interest 
The  Major  sat  down  and  graciously  motioned  for 
George  to  do  the  same.  "I  used  to  live  there;  twenty- 
odd  years  ago.  But  European  travel  spoils  America ; 
the  rush  there,  the  hurry,  the  clamor.  Over  here 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  63 

they  dine,  there  they  eat.  There's  as  much  differ- 
ence between  those  two  performances  as  there  is 
between  The  Mikado  and  Florodora.  From  Portland 
in  Maine  to  Portland  in  Oregon,  the  same  dress, 
same  shops,  same  ungodly  high  buildings.  Here 
it  is  different,  at  the  end  of  every  hundred  miles." 

George  agreed  conditionally.  (The  Major  wasn't 
very  original  in  his  views. )  He  would  have  shed  his 
last  drop  of  blood  for  his  native  land,  but  he  was 
honest  in  acknowledging  her  faults. 

Conversation  idled  in  various  channels,  and  finally 
became  anchored  at  jewels.  Here  the  Major  was  at 
home,  and  he  loved  emeralds  above  all  other  stones. 
He  proved  to  be  an  engaging  old  fellow,  had  circled 
the  globe  three  or  four  times,  and  had  had  an  ad- 
venture or  two  worth  recounting.  And  when  he 
incidentally  mentioned  his  niece,  George  wanted  to 
shake  his  hand. 

Would  Mr.  Jones  join  him  with  a  peg  to  sleep  on  ? 
Mr.  Jones  certainly  would.  And  after  a  mutual 
health,  George  diplomatically  excused  himself,  re- 
tired, buoyant  and  happy.  How  simple  the  affair 
had  been!  A  fellow  could  do  anything  if  only  he 
set  his  mind  to  it.  To-morrow  he  would  meet 


64   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Fortune  Chedsoye,  and  may  Beelzebub  shrive  him  if 
he  could  not  manage  to  control  his  recalcitrant 
tongue. 

As  he  passed  out  of  sight,  Major  Callahan  smiled. 
It  was  that  old  familiar  smile  which,  charged  with 
gentle  mockery,  we  send  after  departing  fools.  It 
was  plain  that  he  needed  another  peg  to  keep  com- 
pany with  the  first,  for  he  rose  and  gracefully 
wended  his  way  down-stairs  to  the  bar.  Two  men 
were  already  leaning  against  the  friendly,  inviting 
mahogany.  There  was  a  magnum  of  champagne 
standing  between  their  glasses.  The  Major  ordered 
a  temperate  whisky  and  soda,  drank  it,  frowned 
at  the  magnum,  paid  the  reckoning,  and  went  back 
up-stairs  again. 

"Don't  remember  old  friends,  eh?"  said  the 
shorter  of  the  two  men,  caressing  his  incarnadined, 
proboscis.  "A  smile  wouldn't  have  hurt  him  any, 
do  you  think  ?" 

"Shut  up !"  admonished  Ryanne.  "You  know  the 
orders ;  no  recognition  on  the  public  floors." 

"Why,  I  meant  no  harm,"  the  other  protested. 
He  took  a  swallow  of  wine.  "But,  dash  it!  here 
I  am,  more'n  four  thousand  miles  from  old  Broad- 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  65 

way,  and  still  walking  blind.  When  is  the  show 
to  start  ?" 

"Not  so  loud,  old  boy.  You've  got  to  have 
patience.  You've  had  some  good  pickings  for  the 
past  three  months,  in  the  smoke-rooms.  That  ought 
to  soothe  you." 

"Well,  it  doesn't.  Here  I  come  from  New  York, 
three  months  ago,  with  a  wad  of  money  for  you 
and  a  great  game  in  sight.  It  takes  a  week  to  find 
you,  and  when  I  do  ...  Well,  you  know.  No 
sooner  are  you  awake,  than  what?  Off  you  go  to 
Bagdad,  on  the  wildest  goose-chase  a  man  ever 
heard  of.  And  that  leaves  me  with  nothing  to  do 
and  nobody  to  talk  to.  I  could  have  cried  yesterday 
when  I  got  your  letter  saying  you'd  be  in  to-day." 

"Well,  I  got  it." 

"The  rug?" 

"Yes.  It  was  wild;  but  after  what  I'd  been 
through  I  needed  something  wild  to  steady  my 
nerves;  some  big  danger,  where  I'd  simply  have  to 
get  together." 

"And  you  got  it  ?"  There  was  frank  wonder  and 
admiration  in  the  pursy  gentleman's  eyes.  "All 
alone,  and  you  got  it?  Honest?" 


66   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Honest.    They  nearly  had  my  hide,  though." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Sold." 

"Who?" 

"Percival." 

"Horace,  you're  a  wonder,  if  there  ever  was  one. 
Sold  it  to  Percival!  You  couldn't  beat  that  in  a 
thousand  years.  You're  a  great  man." 

"Praise  from  Sir  Hubert." 

"Who's  he?" 

"An  authority  on  several  matters." 

"How  much  did  he  give  you  for  it?" 

"Tut,  tut!  It  was  all  my  own  little  jaunt,  Wal- 
lace. I  should  hate  to  lie  to  you  about  it." 

"What  about  the  stake  I  gave  you?" 

Ryanne  made  a  sign  of  dealing  cards. 

"Threw  it  away  on  a  lot  of  dubs,  after  all  I've 
taught  you !" 

"Cards  aren't  my  forte." 

"There's  a  yellow  streak  in  your  hide,  somewhere, 
Horace." 

"There  is,  but  it  is  the  tiger's  stripe,  my  friend. 
What  I  did  with  my  money  is  my  own  business." 

"Will  she  allow  for  that?" 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  67 

"Would  it  matter  one  way  or  the  other?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  it  would.  Sometimes  I 
think  you're  with  us  as  a  huge  joke.  You  don't 
take  the  game  serious  enough."  Wallace  emptied 
his  glass  and  tipped  the  bottle  carefully.  "You're 
out  of  your  class,  somehow." 

"So?" 

"Yes.  You  have  always  struck  me  as  a  man 
who  was  hunting  trouble  for  one  end." 

"And  that?"  Ryanne  seemed  interested. 

Wallace  drew  his  finger  across  his  throat. 
Ryanne  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eye  and  nodded 
affirmatively. 

"I  don't  understand  at  all." 

"You  never  will,  Wallace,  old  chap.  I  am  the 
prodigal  son  whose  brother  ate  the  fatted  calf  be- 
fore I  returned  home.  I  had  a  letter  to-day.  She 
will  be  here  to-morrow  sometime.  You  may  have 
to  go  to  Port  Said,  if  my  little  plan  doesn't  mature." 

"The  Ludwigr 

"Yes." 

"Say,  what  a  Frau  she  would  have  made  the  right 
man!" 

Ryanne  did  not  answer,  but  glowered  at  his  glass. 


68    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"The  United  Romance  and  Adventure  Company." 
Wallace  twirled  his  glass.  "If  you're  a  wonder, 
she's  a  marvel.  A  Napoleon  in  petticoats !  It  does 
make  a  fellow  grin,  when  you  look  it  all  over.  But 
this  is  going  to  be  her  Austerlitz  or  her  Waterloo. 
And  you  really  got  that  rug;  and  on  top  of 
that,  you  have  sold  it  to  George  P.  A.  Jones! 
Here's " 

"Many  happy  returns,"  ironically. 

They  finished  the  bottle  without  further  talk. 
There  was  no  conviviality  here.  Both  were  fond 
of  good  wine,  but  the  more  they  drank,  the  tighter 
grew  their  lips.  Men  who  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  guarding  dangerous  secrets  become  taciturn  in 
their  cups. 

From  time  to  time,  flittingly,  there  appeared 
against  one  of  the  windows,  just  above  the  half- 
curtain,  a  lean,  dark  face  which,  in  profile,  resembled 
the  kite — the  hooked  beak,  the  watchful,  preyful 
eyes.  There  were  two  hungers  written  upon  that 
Arab  face,  food  and  revenge. 

"Allah  is  good/'  he  murmured. 

He  had  but  one  eye  in  use,  the  other  was 
bandaged.  In  fact,  the  face-  exhibited  general  in- 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  69 

dications  of  rough  warfare,  the  skin  broken  on 
the  bridge  of  the  nose,  a  freshly  healed  cut  under 
the  seeing  eye,  a  long  strip  of  plaster  extending  from 
the  ear  to  the  mouth.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
beggar  in  his  mien.  His  lean  throat  was  erect,  his 
chin  protrusive,  the  set  of  his  shoulders  proud  and 
defiant.  Ordinarily,  the  few  lingering  guides  would 
rudely  have  told  him  to  be  off  about  his  business; 
but  they  were  familiar  with  all  turbans,  and  in  the 
peculiar  twist  of  this  one,  soiled  and  ragged 
though  it  was,  they  recognized  some  prince  from 
the  eastern  deserts.  Presently  he  strode  away,  but 
with  a  stiffness  which  they  knew  came  from  long 
journeys  upon  racing-camels. 

George  dreamed  that  night  of  magic  carpets,  of 
sad-eyed  maidens,  of  fierce  Bedouins,  of  battles  in 
the  desert,  of  genii  swelling  terrifically  out  of  squat 
bottles.  And  once  he  rose  and  turned  on  the  lights 
to  assure  himself  that  the  old  Yhiordes  was  not  a 
part  of  these  vivid  dreams. 

He  was  up  shortly  after  dawn,  in  white  riding- 
togs,  for  a  final  canter  to  Mena  House  and  return. 
In  two  days  more  he  would  be  leaving  Egypt  be- 
hind. Rather  glad  in  one  sense,  rather  sorry  in 


70   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

another.  Where  to  put  the  rug  was  a  problem.  He 
might  carry  it  in  his  steamer-roll ;  it  would  be  handier 
there  than  in  the  bottom  of  his  trunk,  stored  away 
in  the  ship's  hold.  Besides,  his  experience  had 
taught  him  that  steamer-rolls  were  only  indifferently 
inspected.  You  will  observe  that  the  luster  of  his 
high  ideals  was  already  dimming.  He  reasoned 
that  insomuch  as  he  was  bound  to  smuggle  and  lie, 
it  might  be  well  to  plan  something  artistically.  He 
wished  now  that  he  was  going  to  spend  Christmas 
in  Cairo;  but  it  was  too  late  to  change  his  booking 
without  serious  loss  of  time  and  money. 

He  had  a  light  breakfast  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Mena  House,  climbed  up  to  the  desert,  bantered  the 
donkey-boys,  amused  himself  by  watching  the  de- 
scent of  some  German  tourists  who  had  climbed 
the  big  Pyramid  before  dawn  to  witness  the  sun- 
rise, and  threw  pennies  to  the  horde  of  blind  beg- 
gars who  instantly  swarmed  about  him  and  de- 
manded, in  the  name  of  Allah,  a  competence  for 
the  rest  of  their  days.  He  finally  escaped  them  by 
•  footing  it  down  the  incline  to  the  hotel  gardens, 
where  his  horse  stood  waiting. 

It  was  long  after  nine  when  he  slid  from  the 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  71 

saddle  at  the  side  entrance  of  the  Semiramis.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  the  bureau  for  his  key,  when  an 
exquisitely  gloved  hand  lightly  touched  his  arm. 

"Don't  you  remember  me,  Mr.  Jones?"  said  a 
voice  of  vocal  honey. 

George  did.  In  his  confusion  he  dropped  his 
pith-helmet,  and  in  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  bumped 
into  the  porter  who  had  rushed  to  his  aid.  Remem- 
ber her!  Would  he  ever  forget  her?  He  never 
thought  of  her  without  dubbing  himself  an  out- 
rageous ass.  He  straightened,  his  cheeks  afire; 
blushing  was  another  of  those  uncontrollable  as- 
ininities  of  his.  It  was  really  she,  come  out  of 
a  past  he  had  hoped  to  be  eternally  inresuscitant ;  the 
droll,  the  witty  woman,  to  whom  in  one  mad  mo- 
ment of  liberality  and  Galahadism  he  had  loaned 
without  security  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  at 
the  roulette  tables  in  Monte  Carlo;  she,  for  whom 
he  had  always  blushed  when  he  recalled  how  easily 
she  had  mulcted  him!  And  here  she  was,  serene, 
lovely  as  ever,  unchanged. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  stranger  (George  couldn't 
recall  by  what  name  he  had  known  her)  ;  "my  dear," 
to  Fortune  Chedsoye,  who  stood  a  little  behind  her, 


72   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"this  is  the  gentleman  I've  often  told  you  about. 
You  were  at  school  at  the  time.  I  borrowed  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  him  at  Monte  Carlo. 
And  what  do  you  think?  When  I  went  to  pay  him 
back  the  next  day,  he  was  gone,  without  leaving 
the  slightest  clue  to  his  whereabouts.  Isn't  that 
droll?  And  to  think  that  I  should  meet  him 
here!" 

That  her  name  had  slipped  his  memory,  if  indeed 
he  had  ever  known  it,  was  true;  but  one  thing 
lingered  incandescently  in  his  mind,  and  that  was, 
he  had  written  her,  following  minutely  her  own 
specific  directions  and  inclosing  his  banker's  address 
in  Paris,  Naples,  and  Cairo;  and  for  many  passings 
of  moons  he  had  opened  his  foreign  mail  eagerly 
and  hopefully.  But  hope  must  have  something  to 
feed  upon,  and  after  a  struggle  lasting  two  years, 
she  rendered  up  the  ghost.  ...  It  wasn't  the 
loss  of  money  that  hurt ;  it  was  the  finding  of  dross 
metal  where  he  supposed  there  was  naught  but 
gold.  Perhaps  his  later  shyness  was  due  as  much 
to  this  disillusioning  incident  as  to  his  middle  names. 

"Isn't  it  droll,  my  dear?"  the  enchantress  re- 
peated; and  George  grew  redder  and  redder  under 


AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  73 

the  beautiful,  grateful  eyes.  "I  must  give  him  a 
draft  this  very  morning." 

"But  .  .  .  Why,  my  dear  Madame,"  stam- 
mered George.  "You  must  not  .  .  .  I  .  .  . !" 

Fortune  laughed.  Somehow  the  quality  of  that 
laughter  pierced  George's  confused  brain  as  some- 
times a  shaft  of  sunlight  rips  into  a  fog,  suddenly, 
stiletto-like.  It  was  full  of  malice. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T   WANTED 

IF  ANY  one  wronged  George,  defrauded  him  of 
money  or  credit,  he  was  always  ready  to  for- 
give, agreeing  that  perhaps  half  the  fault  had  been 
his.  This  was  not  a  sign  of  weakness,  but  of  a 
sense  of  justice  too  well  leavened  with  mercy.  Hu- 
manity errs  in  the  one  as  much  as  in  the  other, 
doubtless  with  some  benign  purpose  in  perspective. 
Now,  it  might  be  that  this  charming  woman  had 
really  never  received  his  letter;  such  things  have 
been  known  to  go  astray.  In  any  case  he  could  not 
say  that  he  had  written.  That  would  have  cast  a 
doubt  upon  her  word,  an  unpardonable  rudeness. 
So,  for  her  very  beauty  alone,  he  gave  her  the  full 
benefit  of  the  doubt. 

"You  mustn't  let  the  matter  trouble  you  in  the 
74 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    75 

least,"  he  said,  his  helmet  now  nicely  adjusted  un- 
der his  arm.  "It  was  so  long  ago  I  had  really  for- 
gotten all  about  it."  Which  was  very  well  said  for 
George. 

"But  I  haven't.  I  have  often  wondered  what 
you  must  have  thought  of  me.  Monte  Carlo  is  such 
a  place!  But  I  must  present  my  daughter.  I  am 
Mrs.  Chedsoye." 

"I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Jones;"  and  in  the 
sad  eyes  there  was  a  glimmer  of  real  friendliness. 
More,  she  extended  her  hand. 

It  was  well  worth  while,  that  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.  It  was  well  worth  the  pinch  here  and  the 
pinch  there  which  had  succeeded  that  loan.  For 
he  had  determined  to  return  to  America  with  a 
pound  or  two  on  his  letter  of  credit,  and  the  suc- 
cess of  this  determination  was  based  upon  many 
a  sacrifice  in  comfort,  sacrifices  he  had  never  con- 
fided to  his  parents.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  to  confess  that  the  first  woman  he  had  met 
in  his  wanderings  should  have  been  the  last.  As 
he  took  the  girl's  hand,  with  the  ulterior  intent  of 
holding  it  till  death  do  us  part,  he  wondered  why 
she  had  laughed  like  that.  The  echo  of  it  still 


76   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

rang  in  his  ears.  And  while  he  could  not  have 
described  it,  he  knew  instinctively  that  it  had  been 
born  of  bitter  thought. 

They  chatted  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more, 
and  managed  famously.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Fortune  Chedsoye  was  the  first  young  woman  he 
had  ever  met  who  could  pull  away  sudden  barriers 
and  open  up  pathways  for  speech,  who,  when  he 
was  about  to  flounder  into  some  cul-de-sac,  guided 
him  adroitly  into  an  alley  round  it.  Not  once  was 
it  necessary  to  drag  in  the  weather,  that  perennial 
if  threadbare  topic.  He  was  truly  astonished  at 
the  ease  with  which  he  sustained  his  part  in  the 
conversation,  and  began  to  think  pretty  well  of 
himself.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  when  two 
clever  and  attractive  women  set  forth  to  make  a 
man  talk  (always  excepting  he  is  dumb),  they 
never  fail  to  succeed.  To  do  this  they  contrive  to 
bring  the  conversation  within  the  small  circle  of  his 
work,  his  travels,  his  preferences,  his  ambitions. 
To  be  sure,  all  this  is  not  fully  extracted  in  fifteen 
minutes,  but  a  woman  obtains  in  that  time  a  good 
idea  of  the  ground  plan. 

Two  distinct  purposes  controlled  the  women  in 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    77 

this  instance.  One  desired  to  interest  him,  while 
the  other  sought  to  learn  whether  he  was  stupid 
or  only  shy. 

At  last,  when  he  left  them  to  change  his  clothes 
and  hurry  down  to  Cook's,  to  complete  the  bargain 
for  the  Yhiordes,  he  had  advanced  so  amazingly 
well  that  they  had  accepted  his  invitation  to  the 
polo-match  that  afternoon.  He  felt  that  invisible 
Mercurial  wings  had  sprouted  from  his  heels,  for 
in  running  up  the  stairs,  he  was  aware  of  no  gravi- 
tative  resistance.  That  this  anomaly  (an  acquain- 
tance with  two  women  about  whom  he  knew  noth- 
ing) might  be  looked  upon  askance  by  those 
who  conformed  to  the  laws  and  by-laws  of  social 
usages,  worried  him  not  in  the  least.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  thinking  that  he  would  be  the  envy 
of  every  other  man  out  at  the  Club  that  afternoon. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  a  quizzical  smile 
slanting  her  lips. 

"You  wish  my  opinion?"  countered  the  daughter. 
"He  is  shy,  but  he  is  neither  stupid  nor  silly;  and 
when  he  smiles  he  is  really  good-looking." 

"My  child,"  replied  the  woman,  drawing  off  her 
gloves  and  examining  her  shapely  hands,  "I  have 


78   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

looked  into  the  very  heart  of  that  young  man.  A 
thousand  years  ago,  a  red-cross  on  his  surtout,  he 
would  have  been  beating  his  fists  against  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem;  five  hundred  years  later,  he  would 
have  been  singing  chant-royales  under  lattice-win- 
dows; a  paladin  and  a  poet." 

"How  do  you  know  that?  Did  he  make  love 
to  you?" 

"No;  but  I  made  love  to  him  without  his  knowing 
it;  and  that  was  more  to  my  purpose  than  having 
him  make  love  to  me,"  enigmatically.  "Three  days, 
and  he  was  so  guileless  that  he  never  asked  my  name. 
But  in  Monte  Carlo,  as  you  know,  one  asks  only 
your  banker's  name." 

"And  your  purpose?" 

"It  is  still  mine,  dear.  Do  you  realize  that  we 
haven't  seen  each  other  in  four  months,  and  that 
you  haven't  offered  to  kiss  me?" 

"Did  he  go  away  without  writing  to  you  about 
that  money?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  calmly  plucked  out  the  inturned 
fingers  of  her  gloves.  "I  believe  I  did  receive  a 
note  inclosing  his  banker's  address,  but,  unfortu- 
nately, in  the  confusion  of  returning  to  Paris,  I  lost 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    79 

it.  My  memory  has  always  been  a  trial  to  me," 
sadly. 

"Since  when?"  coldly.  "There  is  not  a  woman 
living  with  a  keener  memory  than  yours." 

"You  flatter  me.  In  affairs  that  interest  me,  per- 
haps." 

"You  never  meant  to  pay  him.    It  is  horrible." 

"My  dear  Fortune,  how  you  jump  at  conclusions ! 
Did  I  not  offer  him  a  draft  the  very  first  thing?" 

"Knowing  that  at  such  a  moment  he  could  not 
possibly  accept  it?"  derisively.  "Sometimes  I  hate 
you!" 

"In  these  days  filial  devotion  is  a  lost  art." 

"No,  no;  it  is  a  flower  parents  have  ceased  to 
cultivate." 

And  there  was  in  the  tone  a  strained  note  which 
described  an  intense  longing  to  be  loved.  For  if 
George  Percival  Algernon  Jones  was  a  lonely  young 
man,  it  was  the  result  of  his  own  blindness ;  whereas 
Fortune  Chedsoye  turned  hither  and  thither  in 
search  of  that  which  she  never  could  find.  The 
wide  Lybian  desert  held  upon  its  face  a  loneliness, 
a  desolation,  less  mournful  than  that  which  reigned 
within  her  heart. 


8o    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Hush!  We  are  growing  sentimental,"  warned 
the  mother.  "Besides,  I  believe  we  are  attracting 
attention."  Her  glance  swept  a  half-circle  com- 
placently. 

"Pardon  me!  I  should  be  sorry  to  draw  atten- 
tion to  you,  knowing  how  you  abhor  it." 

"My  child,  learn  from  me;  temper  is  the  arch- 
enemy of  smooth  complexions.  Jones — it  makes  you 
laugh." 

"It  is  a  homely,  honest  name." 

"I  grant  that  But  a  Percival  Algernon  Jones!" 
Mrs.  Chedsoye  laughed  softly.  It  was  one  of  those 
pleasant  sounds  that  caused  persons  within  hearing 
to  wait  for  it  to  occur  again.  "Come ;  let  us  go  up 
to  the  room.  It  is  a  dull,  dusty  journey  in  from 
Port  Said." 

Alone,  Fortune  was  certain  that  for  her  mother 
her  heart  knew  nothing  but  hate.  Neglect,  indif- 
ference, injustice,  misunderstanding,  the  chill  re- 
pellence  that  always  met  the  least  outreaching  of 
the  child's  affections,  the  unaccountable  disappear- 
ances, the  terror  of  the  unknown,  the  blank  wall  of 
ignorance  behind  which  she  was  always  kept,  upon 
these  hate  had  builded  her  dark  and  brooding  retreat. 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    81 

Yet,  never  did  the  mother  come  within  the  radius 
of  her  sight  that  she  did  not  fall  under  the  spell 
of  strange  fascination,  enchaining,  fight  against  it 
how  she  might.  A  kindly  touch  of  the  hand,  a  single 
mother-smile,  and  she  would  have  flung  her  arms 
about  the  other  woman's  neck. 

But  the  touch  and  the  mother-smile  never  came. 
She  knew,  she  understood :  she  wasn't  wanted,  she 
hadn't  been  wanted  in  the  beginning;  to  her  mother 
she  was  as  the  young  of  animals,  interesting  only 
up  to  that  time  when  they  could  stand  alone.  That 
the  mother  never  made  and  held  feminine  friend- 
ships was  in  nowise  astonishing.  Beauty  and 
charm,  such  as  she  possessed,  served  immediately  to 
stimulate  envy  in  other  women's  hearts.  And  that 
men  of  all  stations  in  life  flocked  about  her,  why,  it 
is  the  eternal  tribute  demanded  of  beauty.  Here 
and  there  the  men  were  not  all  the  daughter  might 
have  wished.  Often  they  burnt  sweet  flattery  at  her 
shrine,  tentatively;  but  as  she  coolly  stamped  out 
these  incipient  fires,  they  at  length  came  to  regard 
her  as  one  regards  the  beauty  of  a  frosted  window, 
as  a  thing  to  admire  and  praise  in  passing.  One 
ache  always  abided :  the  bitter  knowledge  that  had 


82    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

she  met  in  kind  smile  for  smile  and  jest  for  jest, 
she  might  have  been  her  mother's  boon  companion. 
But  deep  back  in  some  hidden  chamber  of  her  heart 
lay  a  secret  dread  of  such  a  step,  a  dread  which, 
whenever  she  strove  to  analyze  it,  ran  from  under 
her  investigating  touch,  as  little  balls  of  quicksilver 
run  from  under  the  pressure  of  a  thumb. 

She  was  never  without  the  comforts  of  life,  well- 
fed,  well-dressed,  well-housed,  and  often  her  mother 
flung  her  some  jeweled  trinket  which  (again  that 
sense  of  menace)  she  put  away,  but  never  wore. 
The  bright  periods  were  when  they  left  her  in  the 
little  villa  near  Mentone,  with  no  one  but  her  old 
and  faithful  nurse.  There,  with  her  horse,  her  books 
and  her  flowers,  she  was  at  peace.  Week  into 
week  and  month  into  month  she  was  let  be.  Never 
a  letter  came,  save  from  some  former  schoolmate 
who  was  coming  over  and  wanted  letters  of  intro- 
duction to  dukes  and  duchesses.  If  she  smiled  over 
these  letters  it  was  with  melancholy;  for  the  dukes 
and  duchesses,  who  fell  within  her  singular  orbit, 
were  not  the  sort  to  whom  one  gave  letters  of 
introduction. 

Where    her    mother    went    she    never    had    the 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED   83 

least  idea.  She  might  be  in  any  of  the  great 
ports  of  the  world,  anywhere  between  New  York 
and  Port  Sai'd.  The  Major  generally  disappeared 
at  the  same  time.  Then,  perhaps,  she'd  come  back 
from  a  pleasant  tram-ride  over  to  Nice  and  find 
them  both  at  the  villa,  maid  and  luggage.  Mayhap 
a  night  or  two,  and  off  they'd  go  again ;  never  a  word 
about  their  former  journey,  uncommunicative,  rather 
quiet.  These  absences,  together  with  the  undemon- 
strative reappearances,  used  to  hurt  Fortune  dread- 
fully. It  gave  her  a  clear  proof  of  where  she  stood, 
exactly  nowhere.  The  hurt  had  lessened  with  the 
years,  and  now  she  didn't  care  much.  Like  as  not, 
they  would  drag  her  out  of  Eden  for  a  month  or 
two,  for  what  true  reason  she  never  could  quite 
fathom,  unless  it  was  tha-t  at  times  her  mother  liked 
to  have  the  daughter  near  her  as  a  foil. 

At  rare  intervals  she  saw  steel-eyed,  grim- 
mouthed  men  wandering  up  and  down  before  the 
gates  of  the  Villa  Fanny,  but  they  never  rang  the 
bell,  nor  spoke  to  her  when  she  passed  them  on  the 
street.  If  she  talked  of  these  men,  her  mother  and 
the  Major  would  exchange  amused  glances,  nothing 
more. 


84   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

If,  rightly  or  wrongly,  she  hated  her  mother,  she 
despised  her  uncle,  who  was  ever  bringing  to  the 
villa  men  of  money,  but  of  coarse  fiber,  ostensibly 
with  the  view  of  marrying  her  off.  But  Fortune 
had  her  dreams,  and  she  was  quite  content  to  wait. 

There  was  one  man  more  persistent  than  the 
others.  Her  mother  called  him  Horace,  which  the 
Major  mellowed  into  Hoddy.  He  was  tall,  blond, 
good-looking,  a  devil-may-care,  educated,  witty, 
amusing;  and  in  evening  dress  he  appeared  to  be 
what  it  was  quite  evident  he  had  once  been,  a  gentle- 
man. At  first  she  thought  it  strange  that  he  should 
make  her,  instead  of  her  mother,  his  confidante.  As 
to  what  vocation  he  pursued,  she  did  not  know,  for 
he  kept  sedulous  guard  over  his  tongue;  but  his 
past,  up  to  that  fork  in  the  road  where  manhood 
says  good-by  to  youth,  was  hers.  And  in  this  di- 
rection, clever  and  artful  as  the  mother  was,  she 
sought  in  vain  to  wrest  this  past  from  her  daughter's 
lips.  To  the  mother,  it  was  really  necessary  for  her 
to  know  who  this  man  really  was,  had  been,  knowing 
thoroughly  as  she  did  what  he  was  now. 

Persistent  he  undeniably  was,  but  never  coarse 
nor  rude.  Since  that  time  he  had  come  back  from 


the  casino  at  Monte  Carlo,  much  the  worse  for  wine, 
she  feared  him ;  yet,  in  spite  of  this  fear,  she  had  for 
him  a  vague  liking,  a  hazy  admiration.  Whatever 
his  faults  might  be,  she  stood  witness  to  his  great 
physical  strength  and  courage.  He  was  the  only 
man,  among  all  those  who  appeared  at  the  Villa 
Fanny  and  immediately  vanished,  who  returned 
again.  And  he,  too,  soon  grew  to  be  a  part  of  this 
unreal  drama,  arriving  mysteriously  one  day  and 
departing  the  next 

That  a  drama  was  being  enacted  under  her  eyes 
she  no  longer  doubted ;  but  it  was  as  though  she  had 
taken  her  seat  among  the  audience  in  the  middle  of 
the  second  act.  She  could  make  neither  head  nor 
tail  to  it. 

Whenever  she  accompanied  her  mother  upon  these 
impromptu  journeys,  her  character,  or  rather  her 
attitude,  underwent  a  change.  She  swept  aside  her 
dreams ;  she  accepted  the  world  as  it  was,  saw  things 
as  they  were;  laughed,  but  without  merriment; 
jested,  but  with  the  venomed  point.  It  was  the  re- 
verse of  her  real  character  to  give  hurt  to  any  living 
thing,  but  during  these  forced  marches,  as  the  Major 
humorously  termed  them,  and  such  they  were  in 


86        THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

truth,  she  could  no  more  stand  against  giving  the 
cruel  stab  than,  when  alone  in  her  garden,  she 
could  resist  the  tender  pleasure  of  succoring  a 
fallen  butterfly.  She  was  especially  happy  in  find- 
ing weak  spots  in  her  mother's  armor,  and  she 
never  denied  herself  the  thrust.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  en- 
joyed these  sharp  encounters,  for  it  must  be  added 
that  she  gave  as  good  as  she  took,  and  more  often 
than  not  her  thrusts  bit  deeper  and  did  not  always 
heal. 

Fortune  never  asked  questions  relative  to  the 
family  finances.  If  she  harbored  any  doubts  as  to 
their  origin,  to  the  source  of  their  comparative  lux- 
ury, she  never  put  these  into  speech. 

She  had  never  seen  her  father,  but  she  had  often 
heard  him  referred  to  as  "that  brute"  or  "that  fool" 
or  "that  drunken  imbecile."  If  a  portrait  of  him 
existed,  Fortune  had  not  yet  seen  it.  She  visited 
his  lonely  grave  once  a  year,  in  the  Protestant  ceme- 
tery, and  dreamily  tried  to  conjure  up  what  manner 
of  man  he  had  been.  One  day  she  plied  her  old 
Italian  nurse  with  questions. 

"Handsome?  Yes,  but  it  was  all  so  long  ago, 
cara  mia,  that  I  can  not  describe  him  to  you." 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    87 

"Did  he  drink?"  Behind  this  question  there  was 
no  sense  of  moral  obloquy  as  applying  to  the  dead. 

"Sainted  Mary!  didn't  all  men  drink  their  very 
souls  into  purgatory  those  unreligious  days?" 

"Had  he  any  relatives?" 

"I  never  heard  of  any." 

"Was  he  rich?" 

"No;  but  when  the  signora,  your  mother,  mar- 
ried him  she  thought  he  was." 

It  was  not  till  later  years  that  Fortune  grasped 
the  true  significance  of  this  statement.  It  illumined 
many  pages.  She  dropped  all  investigations,  con- 
cluding wisely  that  her  mother,  if  she  were  minded 
to  speak  at  all,  could  supply  only  the  incidents,  the 
details. 

It  was  warm,  balmy,  like  May  in  the  northern 
latitudes.  Women  wore  white  dresses  and  carried 
sunshades  over  their  shoulders.  A  good  band  played 
airs  from  the  new  light-operas,  and  at  one  side  of 
the  grand-stand  were  tea-tables  under  dazzling 
linen.  Fashion  was  out.  Not  all  her  votaries  en- 
joyed polo,  but  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  pre- 
tend that  they  did.  When  they  talked  they  dis- 


88   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

cussed  the  Spanish  dancer  who  paraded  back  and 
forth  across  the  tea-lawn.  They  discussed  her  jewels, 
her  clothes,  her  escort,  and  quite  frankly  her  morals, 
which  of  the  four  was  by  all  odds  the  most  popular 
theme.  All  agreed  that  she  was  handsome  in  a 
bold  way.  This  modification  invariably  distinguishes 
the  right  sort  of  women  from  the  wrong  sort,  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal  to  a  higher  court.  They 
could  well  afford  to  admit  of  her  beauty,  since  the 
dancer  was  outside  what  is  called  the  social  pale, 
for  all  that  her  newest  escort  was  a  prince  incognito. 
They  also  discussed  the  play  at  bridge,  the  dull- 
ness of  this  particular  season,  the  possibility  of  war 
between  England  and  Germany.  And  some  one 
asked  others  who  were  the  two  well-gowned  women 
down  in  front,  sitting  on  either  side  of  the  young 
chap  in  pearl-grey.  No  one  knew.  Mother  and 
daughter,  probably.  Anyhow,  they  knew  something 
about  good  clothes.  Certainly  they  weren't  ordinary 
tourists.  They  had  seen  What's-his-name  tip  his 
hat;  and  this  simple  act  would  pass  any  one  into 
the  inner  shrine;  for  the  general  was  not  promiscu- 
ous. There,  the  first-half  was  over.  All  down  for 
tea !  Thank  goodness ! 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED   89 

George  was  happ3>-.  He  was  proud,  too.  He  saw 
the  glances,  the  nods  of  approval.  He  basked  in  a 
kind  of  sunshine  that  was  new.  What  an  ass  he 
had  been  all  his  life!  To  have  been  afraid  of 
women  just  because  he  was  Percival  Algernon! 
What  he  should  have  done  was  to  have  gone  forth 
boldly,  taken  what  pleasures  he  found,  and  laughed 
with  the  rest  of  them. 

There  weren't  two  other  women  in  all  Cairo  to 
compare  with  these  two.  The  mother,  shapely,  ele- 
gant, with  the  dark  beauty  of  a  high-class  Spaniard, 
possessing  humor,  trenchant  comment,  keen  deduc- 
tion and  application;  worldly,  cynical,  high-bred. 
The  student  of  nations  might  have  tried  in  vain  to 
place  her.  She  spoke  the  French  of  the  Parisians,  the 
Italian  of  the  Florentines,  the  German  of  the  Hano- 
verians, and  her  English  was  the  envy  of  Americans 
and  the  wonder  of  the  Londoners.  The  daughter 
fell  behind  her  but  little,  but  she  was  more  re- 
served. The  worldly  critic  called  this  good  form: 
no  daughter  should  try  to  outshine  her  widowed 
mother. 

As  Fortune  sat  beside  the  young  collector  that 
afternoon,  she  marveled  why  they  had  given  him 


90   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Percival  Algernon.  Jones  was  all  right,  solid  and 
substantial,  but  the  other  two  turned  it  into  ridicule. 
Still,  what  was  the  matter  with  Percival  Algernon? 
History  had  given  men  of  these  names  mighty  fine 
things  to  accomplish.  Then  why  ridicule?  Was 
it  due  to  the  perverted  angle  of  vision  created  by 
wits  and  humorists  in  the  comic  weeklies,  who  were 
eternally  pillorying  these  unhappy  prefixes  to  ordi- 
nary cognomens?  And  why  this  pillorying?  She 
hadn't  studied  the  subject  sufficiently  to  realize  that 
the  business  of  the  humorist  is  not  so  much  to  amuse 
as  to  warn  persons  against  becoming  ridiculous. 
And  Percival  Algernon  Jones  was  all  of  that.  It  re- 
solved itself  into  a  matter  of  values,  then.  Had  his 
surname  been  Montmorency,  Percival  Algernon 
would  have  fitted  as  a  key  to  its  lock.  She  smiled. 
No  one  but  a  fond  mother  would  be  guilty  of  such 
a  crime.  And  if  she  ever  grew  to  know  him  well 
enough,  she  was  going  to  ask  him  all  about  this 
mother. 

What  interest  had  her  own  mother  in  this  harm- 
less young  man?  Oh,  some  day  she  would  burst 
through  this  web,  this  jungle;  some  day  she  would 
see  beyond  the  second  act!  What  then?  she  never 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED   91 

troubled  to  ask  herself;  time  enough  when  the  mo- 
ment arrived. 

"I  had  an  interesting  adventure  last  night,  a 
most  interesting  one,"  began  George,  who  was  no 
longer  the  shy,  blundering  recluse.  They  were  on 
the  way  back  to  town. 

"Tell  it  me,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye. 

He  leaned  over  from  his  seat  beside  the  chauffeur 
of  the  hired  automobile.  (Hang  the  expense  on  a  day 
like  this!)  "A  fellow  brought  me  a  rug  last  night, 
one  of  the  rarest  outside  the  museums.  How  and 
where  he  got  it  I'm  not  fully  able  to  state.  But  he 
had  been  in  a  violent  struggle  somewhere,  arms 
slashed,  shins  battered.  He  admitted  that  he  had 
gone  in  where  many  shapes  of  death  lurked.  It  was 
a  bit  irregular.  I  bought  the  rug,  however.  Some 
one  else  would  have  snatched  it  up  if  I  hadn't.  I 
wanted  him  to  recount  the  adventure,  but  he  smiled 
and  refused.  I'  tell  you  what  it  is,  these  eastern 
ports  are  great  places." 

"How  interesting!"  Mrs.  Chedsoye's  color  was 
not  up  to  the  mark.  "He  was  not  seriously 
wounded?" 

"Oh,  no.     He  looks  like  a  tough  individual.     I 


92    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mean,  a  chap  strong  and  hardy  enough  to  pull  him- 
self out  of  pretty  bad  holes.    He  needed  the  money." 

"Did  he  give  his  name?"  asked  Fortune. 

"Yes;  but  no  doubt  it  was  assumed.  Ryannfe 
and  he  spelt  it  with  an  'ne/  and  humorously  ex- 
plained why  he  did  so." 

"Is  he  young,  old,  good-looking,  or  what?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  eyed  her  offspring  through  nar- 
rowed lids. 

"I  should  say  that  he  was  about  thirty-five,  tall, 
something  of  an  athlete ;  and  there  remains  some  in- 
dications that  in  the  flush  of  youth  he  was  handsome. 
Odd.  He  reminded  me  of  a  young  man  who  was 
on  the  varsity  eleven — foot-bailer — when  I  entered 
my  freshman  year.  I  didn't  know  him,  but  I  was  a 
great  admirer  of  his  from  the  grand-stand.  Horace 
Wads  worth  was  his  name." 

Horace  Wadsworth.  Fortune  had  the  sensation 
of  being  astonished  at  something  she  had  expected 
to  happen. 

Just  before  going  down  to  dinner  that  night, 
Fortune  turned  to  her  mother,  her  chin  combative 
in  its  angle. 

"I  gave  Mr.  Jones  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED    93 

out  of  that  money  you  left  in  my  care.  Knowing 
how  forgetful  you  are,  I  took  the  liberty  of  attend- 
ing to  the  affair  myself." 

She  expected  a  storm,  but  instead  her  mother 
viewed  her  with  appraising  eyes.  Suddenly  she 
laughed  mellowly.  Her  sense  of  humor  was  too  ex- 
citable to  resist  so  delectable  a  situation. 

"You  told  him,  of  course,  that  the  money  came 
from  me?"  demanded  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  when  she 
could  control  her  voice. 

"Surely,  since  it  did  come  from  you." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  you  are  to  me  like  the  song 
in  The  Mikado;"  and  she  hummed  lightly — 

"  To  make  the  prisoner  pent 
Unwillingly  represent 
A  source  of  innocent  merriment, 
Of  innocent  merriment !' ' 

"Am  I  a  prisoner,  then?" 

"Whatever  you  like ;  it  can  not  be  said  that  I  ever 
held  you  on  the  leash,"  taking  a  final  look  into  the 
mirror. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  rug?  You  and  I 
know  who  stole  it." 


94   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  have  explicitly  warned  you,  my  child,  never 
to  meddle  with  affairs  that  do  not  concern  you." 

"Indirectly,  some  of  yours  do.  You  are  in  love 
with  Ryanne,  as  he  calls  himself." 

"My  dear,  you  do  not  usually  stoop  to  such 
vulgarity.  And  are  you  certain  that  he  has  any 
other  name?" 

"If  I  were  I  should  not  tell  you." 

"Ah!" 

"A  man  will  tell  the  woman  he  loves  many 
things  he  will  not  tell  the  woman  he  admires." 

"As  wise  as  the  serpent,"  bantered  the  mother; 
but  she  looked  again  into  the  mirror  to  see  if  her 
color  was  still  what  it  should  be.  "And  whom 
does  he  admire?"  the  Mona  Lisa  smile  hovering 
at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 

"You,"  evenly. 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  thought  for  a  moment,  thought 
deeply  and  with  new  insight.  It  was  no  longer  a 
child  but  a  woman,  and  mayhap  she  had  played 
upon  the  taut  strings  of  the  young  heart  once  too 
often.  Still,  she  was  unafraid. 

"And  whom  does  he  love?" 

"Me.     Shall  I  get  you  the  rouge,  mother?" 


THE  GIRL  WHO  WASN'T  WANTED   95 

Still  with  that  unchanging  smile,  the  woman  re- 
ceived the  stab.  "My  daughter,"  as  if  speculatively, 
"you  will  get  on.  You  haven't  been  my  pupil  all 
these  years  for  nothing.  Let  us  go  down  to  din- 
ner." 

Fortune,  as  she  silently  followed,  experienced  a 
sense  of  disconcertion  rather  than  of  elation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MOONLIGHT    AND   POETRY 

A  BALL  followed  dinner  that  night,  Wednes- 
day. The  ample  lounging-room  filled  up 
rapidly  after  coffee:  officers  in  smart  uniforms  and 
spurs,  whose  principal  function  in  times  of  peace 
is  to  get  in  everybody's  way,  rowel  exposed  ankles, 
and  demolish  lace  ruffles,  Egyptians  and  Turks  and 
sleek  Armenians  in  somber  western  frock  and  scar- 
let eastern  fez  or  tarboosh,  women  of  all  colors 
(meaning,  of  course,  as  applied)  and  shapes  and 
tastes,  the  lean  and  fat,  the  tall  and  short,  such  as 
Billy  Taylor  is  said  to  have  kissed  in  all  the  ports, 
and  tail-coats  of  as  many  styles  as  Joseph's  had 
patches.  George  could  distinguish  his  compatriots 
by  the  fit  of  the  trousers  round  the  instep;  the 
Englishman  had  his  fitted  at  the  waist  and  trusted 

96 


MOONLIGHT  AND   POETRY  97 

in  Providence  for  the  hang  of  the  rest.  This  trifling 
detective  work  rather  pleased  George.  The  women, 
however,  were  all  Eves  to  his  eye;  liberal  expanses 
of  beautiful  white  skin,  the  bare  effect  being  modi- 
fied by  a  string  of  pearls  or  diamonds  or  emeralds, 
and  hair  which  might  or  might  not  have  been  wholly 
their  own.  He  waited  restlessly  for  the  reappear- 
ance of  Mrs.  Chedsoye  and  her  daughter.  All  was 
right  with  the  world,  except  that  he  was  to  sail  alto- 
gether too  soon.  His  loan  had  been  returned,  and 
he  knew  that  his  former  suspicions  had  been  most 
unworthy.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  had  never  received  his 
note. 

Some  one  was  sitting  down  beside  him.  It  was 
Ryanne,  in  evening  clothes,  immaculate,  blase,  pink- 
cheeked.  There  are  some  men  so  happily  framed 
that  they  can  don  ready-made  suits  without  calling 
your  attention  to  the  fact.  George  saw  at  once  that 
the  adventurer  was  one  of  these  fortunate  indi- 
viduals. 

"Makes  a  rather  good  picture  to  look  at;  eh?" 
began  Ryanne,  rolling  a  flake-tobacco  cigarette. 
"Dance?" 

"No.    Wish  I  could.    You've  done  quick  work," 


98    THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

with  admiring  inspection.  "Not  a  flaw  anywhere. 
How  do  you  do  it?" 

"Thanks.  Thanks  to  you,  I  might  say.  I  did 
some  tall  hustling,  though.  Strange,  how  we  love 
these  funeral  toggeries.  We  follow  the  dance  and 
we  follow  the  dead,  with  never  a  variation  in  color. 
The  man  who  invented  the  modern  evening  clothes 
must  have  done  good  business  during  the  day  as 
chief-mourner." 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  your  luggage?" 

Ryanne  caressed  his  chin.  "My  luggage  is,  I 
believe,  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  It  is  of  no  great 
importance.  I  never  carry  anything  of  value,  save 
my  skin.  I'm  not  like  the  villain  in  the  melo- 
drama; no  incriminating  documents,  no  lost  wills, 
no  directions  for  digging  up  pirates'  gold." 

"I  suppose  you'll  soon  be  off  for  America?" 
George  asked  indifferently. 

"I  suppose  so.  By  the  way,  I  saw  you  at  the 
game  to-day." 

"No !    Where  were  you  ?" 

"Top  row.  I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you. 
It  may  sound  rather  odd  to  your  ears,  but  I  know 
those  two  ladies  rather  well.  I  kept  out  of  the 


MOONLIGHT  AND   POETRY  99 

way  till  I  could  find  some  clothes.  The  favor  I  ask 
is  that  you  will  not  tell  them  anything  regarding 
the  circumstances  of  our  meeting.  I  am  known  to 
them  as  a  globe-trotter  and  a  collector." 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  George  contritely.  "But 
I  have  already  told  them." 

"The  devil  you  have!"  Ryanne  dropped  his 
cigarette  into  the  ash-tray.  "If  I  remember  rightly, 
you  asked  me  to  say  nothing." 

"I  know,"  said  George,  visibly  embarrassed.  "I 
forgot." 

"Well,  the  fat  is  in  the  fire.  I  dare  say  that  I 
can  get  round  it.  It  was  risky.  Women  like  to 
talk.  I  expect  every  hour  to  hear  of  some  one  ar- 
riving from  Bagdad." 

"There's  no  boat  from  that  direction  till  next 
week,"  informed  George,  who  was  a  stickler  on 
time-tables. 

"There  are  other  ways  of  getting  into  Egypt. 
Know  anything  about  racing-camels  ?" 

"You  don't  believe    .    .    .     ?" 

"My  friend,  I  believe  in  all  things  that  haven't 
been  proved  impossible.  You've  been  knocking 
about  here  long  enough  to  know  something  of  the 


ioo   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

tenacity  of  the  Arab  and  the  East  Indian.  Given 
a  just  cause,  an  idol's  eye  or  a  holy  carpet,  and 
they'll  follow  you  round  the  world  ten  times,  if  need 
be.  I  never  worry  needlessly,  but  I  lay  out  before 
me  all  the  points  in  the  game.  There  is  one  man 
in  Bagdad  who  will  never  cease  to  think  of  me. 
This  fellow  is  an  Arab,  Mahomed-El-Gebel  by  name, 
the  real  article,  proud  and  savage, '  into  whose 
keeping  the  Holy  Yhiordes  was  given;  Mahomed- 
El-Gebel,  the  Pasha's  right-hand,  a  sheik  in  his 
own  right." 

"But  you  haven't  got  the  rug  now." 

"No,  Mr.  Jones,  I  haven't;  but  on  the  other  hand, 
you  have.  So,  here  we  are  together.  When  he 
gets  through  with  me,  your  turn." 

George  laughed.  Ryanne  grew  thoughtful  over 
this  sign.  Percival  Algernon  did  not  seem  exactly 
worried. 

"Aren't  you  a  little  afraid?" 

"I?  Why  should  I  be?"  inquired  George  inno- 
cently. "Certainly,  whatever  your  Arab  friend's 
arguments  may  be,  moral  or  physical,  I'm  going  to 
keep  that  Yhiordes." 

Was   he  bluffing?   Ryanne  wondered.      Did   he 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         101 

really  have  nerve?  Well,  within  forty-eight  hours 
there  would  come  a  test. 

"Say,  do  you  know,  I  rather  wish  you'd  been 
with  me  on  that  trip — that  is,  if  you  like  a  rough 
game."  Ryanne  said  this  in  all  sincerity. 

"I  have  never  been  in  a  rough  game,  as  you  call 
it;  but  I've  often  had  a  strong  desire  to  be,  just  to 
find  out  for  myself  what  sort  of  a  duffer  I  am." 

Ryanne  had  met  this  sort  of  man  before ;  the  fel- 
low who  wanted  to  know  what  stuff  he  was  made  of, 
and  was  ready  to  risk  his  hide  to  find  out.  His 
experience  had  taught  him  to  expect  nothing  of  the 
man  who  knew  just  what  he  was  going  to  do  in 
a  crisis. 

"Did  you  ever  know,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  Ryanne, 
his  eyes  humorous,  "that  there  is  an  organization 
in  this  world  of  ours,  a  company  that  offers  a  try- 
out  to  men  of  your  kidney?" 

"What's  that?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  sa*y.  There  is  an  established  concern 
which  will,  upon  application  for  a  liberal  purchase 
of  stock,  arrange  any  kind  of  adventure  you  wish." 

"What?"  George  drew  in  his  legs  and  sat  up. 
"What  sort  of  a  jolly  is  this?" 


102   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"You  put  your  finger  upon  the  one  great  obstacle. 
No  one  will  believe  that  such  a  concern  exists.  Yet 
it  is  a  fact.  And  why  not?" 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  real;  it  would  be  going 
to  the  moon  a  la  Coney  Island." 

"Wrong,  absolutely  wrong.  If  I  told  you  that  I 
am  a  stock-holder  in  this  company,  and  that  the  ad- 
venture of  the  Yhiordes  rug  was  arranged  for  my 
special  benefit,  what  would  you  say?" 

"Say?"  George  turned  a  serious  countenance  to- 
ward the  adventurer.  "Why,  the  whole  thing  is 
absurd  on  the  face  of  it.  As  a  joke,  it  might  go; 
but  as  a  genuine  affair,  utterly  impossible." 

"No,"  quietly.  "I  admit  that  it  sounds  absurd, 
yes;  but  ten  years  ago  they'd  have  locked  up,  as 
insane,  a  man  who  said  that  he  could  fly.  But  think 
of  last  summer  at  Paris,  at  Rheims,  at  Frankfort; 
the  Continental  air  was  full  of  flying-machines.  Bah ! 
It's  pretty  difficult  to  impress  the  average  mind  with 
something  new.  Why  shouldn't  we  cater  to  the 
poetic,  the  romantic  side  of  man?  We've  concerns 

% 

for  everything  else.  The' fact  is,  mediocrity  is 
always  standing  behind  the  corner  with  brickbats 
for  the  initiative.  Believe  me  or  not,  Mr.  Jones,  but 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         103 

this  company  exists.  The  proof  is  that  you  have 
the  rug  and  I  have  the  scars." 

"But  in  these  prosaic  times !"  murmured  George, 
still  skeptical. 

"Prosaic  times !"  sniffed  Ryanne.  "There's  one 
of  your  brickbats.  They  swung  it  at  the  head  of 
the  first  printer.  Prosaic  times!  My  friend,  this 
is  the  most  romantic  and  bewildering  age  humanity 
has  yet  seen.  There's  more  romance  and  adventure 
going  abou,t  on  wheels  and  steel-bottoms  than  ever 
there  was*in  the  days  of  Drake  and  the  Spanish  gal- 
leons. There's  an  adventure  lurking  round  the 
nearest  corner — romance,  too.  What  this  organiza- 
tion does  is  to  direct  you;  after  that  you  have  to 
shift  for  yourself.  But,  like  a  first-rate  physical 
instructor,  they  never  map  out  more  than  a  man 
can  do.  They  gave  me  the  rug.  Your  bones,  on 
such  a  quest,  would  have  been  bleaching  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Jigris." 

"What  the  deuce  is  this  company  called  ?"  George 
was  enjoying  the  conversation  immensely. 

"The  United  Romance  and  Adventure  Company, 
Ltd.,  of  London,  Paris,  and  New  York." 

"Have  you  any  of  the  company's  paper  with  you  ?" 


104   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

George  repressed  his  laughter  because  Ryanne's  face 
was  serious  enough. 

"Unfortunately,  no.  But  if  you  will  give  me  your 
banker's  address  I'll  be  pleased  to  forward  you  the 
prospectus." 

"Knauth,  Nachod  and  Kuhne.  I  am  shortly  leav- 
ing for  home.  Better  send  it  to  New  York.  I  say, 
suppose  a  chap  buys  an  adventure  that  is  not  up 
to  the  mark;  can  he  return  it  or  exchange  it  for 
another  ?" 

"No.  It's  all  chance,  you  know.  The  rules  of  the 
game  are  steel-bound.  We  find  you  an  adventure; 
it's  up  to  you  to  make  good." 

"But,  once  more,  suppose  a  chap  gets  a  little  too 
rough  a  game,  and  doesn't  turn  up  for  his  dividends ; 
what  then  ?" 

"In  that  event,"  answered  Ryanne  sadly,  "the 
stock  reverts  to  the  general  fund." 

George  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  let  go  his  laugh- 
ter. "You  are  mighty  good  company,  Mr.  Ryanne." 

"Well,  well ;  we'll  say  nothing  more  about  it.  But 
a  moment  gone  you  spoke  as  if  you  were  game  for 
an  exploit." 

"I  still  am.     But  if  I  knew  the  adventure  was 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         105 

prearranged,  as  you  say,  and  I  was  up  against  a 
wall,  there  would  be  the  inclination  to  cable  the  firm 
for  more  instructions." 

Ryanne  himself  laughed  this  time.  "That's  a 
good  idea.  I  don't  believe  the  company  ever  thought 
of  such  a  contingency.  But  I  repeat,  our  business 
is  to  give  you  the  kick-off.  After  that  you  have  to 
fight  for  your  own  downs." 

"The  stock  isn't  listed  ?"  again  laughing. 

"Scarcely.  One  man  tells  another,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  so  on." 

"You  send  me  the  prospectus.  I'm  rather  curious 
to  have  a  look  at  it." 

"I  certainly  shall  do  so,"  replied  Ryanne,  with 
gravity  unassumed.  "Ah !  Here  come  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  and  her  daughter.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  make 
myself  scarce.  I  do  not  care  to  see  them  just  now, 
after  your  having  told  them  about  the  stolen 
Yhiordes." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  George,  rising  eagerly. 

"It's  all  in  the  game,"  gallantly. 

George  saw  him  gracefully  manceuver  his  way 
round  the  crush  toward  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
bar.  Really,  he  would  like  to  know  more  about 


io6   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

this  amiable  free-lance.  As  the  old  fellows  used  to 
say,  he  little  dreamed  that  destiny,  one  of  those 
things  from  Pandora's  box,  was  preparing  a  deeper 
and  more  intimate  acquaintance. 

"And  what  has  been  amusing  you,  Mr.  Jones?" 
asked  Mrs.  Chedsoye.  "I  saw  you  laughing." 

"I  was  talking  with  the  rug  chap.  He's  a  droll 
fellow.  He  said  that  he  had  met  you  somewhere, 
but  concluded  not  to  renew  the  acquaintance,  since 
I  told  him  that  his  adventure  in  part  was  known  to 
you." 

"That  is  foolish.  I  rather  enjoy  me«Hng  men  of 
his  stamp.  Don't  you,  Fortune?" 

"Sometimes,"  with  a  dry  little  smile.  "I  believe 
we  have  met  him,  mother.  There  was  something 
familiar  about  his  head.  Of  course,  we  saw  him 
only  from  a  distance." 

"I  do  not  think  there  is  any  real  harm  in  him," 
said  George.  "What  made  me  laugh  was  a  singular 
proposition  he  set  before  me.  He  said  he  owned 
stock  in  a  concern  called  The  United  Romance  and 
Adventure  Company';  and  that  for  a  specified  sum 
of  money,  one  could  have  any  adventure  one 
pleased." 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         107 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?"  cried  the 
mother  merrily.  Fortune  searched  her  face  keenly. 
"The  United  Romance  and  Adventure  Company! 
He  must  have  been  joking.  What  did  you  say  his 
name  is?" 

"Ryanne.  Joking  is  my  idea  exactly,"  George 
agreed.  "The  scheme  is  to  plunge  the  stock-holder 
into  a  real  live  adventure,  and  then  let  him  pull  him- 
self out  the  best  way  he  can.  Sounds  good.  He 
added  that  this  rug  business  was  an  instance  of  the 
success  of  the  concern.  There  goes  the  music.  Do 
you  dance,j^Iiss  Chedsoye?" 

"A  little."  Fortune  was  preoccupied.  She  was 
wondering  what  lay  behind  Mr.  Ryanne's  amiable 
jest. 

"Go  along,  both  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye.  "I 
am  too  old  to  dance.  I  prefer  watching  people.'' 
She  sat  down  and  arranged  herself  comfortably. 
She  was  always  arranging  herself  comfortably;  it 
was  one  of  the  secrets  of  her  perennial  youth.  She 
was  very  lovely,  but  George  had  eyes  for  the 
daughter  only.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  saw  this,  but  was 
not  in  the  least  chagrined. 

"It  is  so  many  years  since  I  tripped  the  light  fan- 


io8   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

tastic  toe,"  George  confessed,  reluctantly  and 
nervously,  now  that  he  had  bravely  committed  him- 
self. "It  is  quite  possible  that  the  accent  will  be 
primarily  upon  the  trip." 

"Perhaps,  then,"  replied  the  girl,  who  truthfully 
was  out  of  tune,  "perhaps  I  had  better  get  my  wraps 
and  we'll  go  outside.  The  night  is  glorious." 

She  couldn't  have  suggested  anything  more  to  his 
liking.  And  so,  after  a  little  hurrying  about,  the 
two  young  people  went  outside  and  began  to  prom- 
enade slowly  up  and  down  the  mole.  Their  conver- 
sation was  desultory.  George  had  dropped  back  into 
his  shell  and  the  girl  was  not  equal  to  the  task  of 
drawing  him  out.  Once  he  stumbled  over  a  sleeping 
beggar,  and  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  caught 
him  by  the  arm. 

"Thanks.    I'm  clumsy." 

"It's  rather  difficult  to  see  them  in  the  moonlight ; 
their  rags  match  the  pavements." 

The  Egyptian  night,  that  sapptiirine  darkness 
which  the  flexible  imagination  peoples  with  lovely 
and  terrible  shades,  or  floods  with  mystery  and 
romance  and  wonder,  lay  softly  upon  this  strip  of 
verdure  aslant  the  desert's  face,  the  Valley  of  the 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         109 

Nile.  The  moon,  round,  brilliant,  strangely  near, 
suffused  the  scarred  old  visage  of  the  world  with 
phantom  silver;  the  stones  of  the  parapet  glowed 
dully,  the  pavement  glistened  whitely,  all  things  it 
touched  with  gentleness,  lavishing  beauty  upon 
beauty,  mellowing  ugliness  or  effacing  it.  The  deep 
blue  Nile,  beribboned  with  the  glancing  lights  from 
the  silent  feluccas,  curling  musically  along  the  sides 
of  the  frost-like  dahabeahs  and  steamers,  rolled  on 
to  the  sea;  and  the  blue- white  arc-lamps,  spanning 
the  Great  Nile  Bridge,  took  the  semblance  of  a  pearl 
necklace.  From  time  to  time  a  caravan  trooped 
across  the  bridge  into  Cairo.  The  high  and  low 
weird  notes  of  the  tom-toms,  the  wheezing  protests 
of  the  camels,  the  raucous  defiance  of  the  donkeys, 
the  occasional  thin  music  of  reeds,  were  sounds  that 
crossed  and  recrossed  one  another,  anciently. 

"Do  you  care  for  poetry,  Mr.  Jones?" 

"I?    I  used  to  write  it." 

"And  you  aren't  afraid  to  admit  it?" 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  confess  the  deed  to  every  one," 
he  answered  frankly.  "We  all  write  poetry  at  one 
time  or  another ;  but  it's  generally  not  constitutional, 
and  we  recover." 


no   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  do  not  see  why  any  one  should  be  ashamed  of 
writing  poetry." 

"Ah,  but  there  is  poetry  and  poetry.  My  kind 
and  Byron's  is  born  of  kindred  souls ;  but  he  was  an 
active  genius,  whereas,  I  wasn't  even  a  passive  one. 
In  all  great  poets  I  find  my  own  rejected  thoughts, 
as  Emerson  says ;  and  that's  enough  for  my  slender 
needs.  Poets  are  rather  uncomfortable  chaps  to 
have  round.  They  are  capricious,  irritable,  temper- 
amental, selfish,  and  usually  demand  all  the  atten- 
tion." 

The  little  vocal  stream  dried  up  again,  and  once 
more  they  listened  to  the  magic  sounds  of  the  night. 
She  stopped  abruptly  to  look  over  the  parapet,  and 
his  shoulder  met  hers;  after  that  the  world  to  him 
was  never  going  to  be  the  same  again. 

Moonlight  and  poetry;  not  the  safest  channels 
to  sail  uncharted.  The  girl  was  lonely,  and  George 
was  lonely,  too.  His  longing  had  now  assumed  a 
definite  form;  hers  moved  from  this  to  that,  still  in- 
definitely. The  quickness  with  which  this  definition 
had  come  to  George  rather  startled  him.  His  first 
sight  of  Fortune  Chedsoye  had  been  but  yesterday; 
yet,  here  he  was,  not  desperately  but  consciously  in 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         in 

love  with  her.  The  situation  bore  against  all  .pre- 
cepts ;  it  ripped  up  his  preconceived  ideas  of  romance 
as  a  gale  at  sea  shreds  a  canvas.  He  felt, a  bit 
panicky.  He  had  always  planned  a  courtship  of  a 
year  or  so,  meetings,  separations,  and  remeetings, 
pleasurable  expectations,  little  junkets  to  theatres 
and  country  places ;  in  brief,  to  witness  the  rose  grow 
and  unfold.  Somewhere  he  had  read  or  heard  that 
courtship  was  the  plummet  which  sounded  the  depths 
of  compatibility.  He  knew  nothing  of  Fortune 
Chedsoye,  save  that  she  was  beautiful  to  his  eyes, 
and  that  she  was  as  different  from  the  ordinary  run 
of  girls  as  yonder  moon  was  from  the  stars.  Here 
his  knowledge  ended.  But  instinct  went  on,  ap- 
praising and  delving  and  winnowing,  and  instinct 
told  him  what  knowledge  could  not,  that  she  was  all 
his  heart  desired. 

When  a  man  finally  decides  that  he  is  in  love,  his 
troubles  begin,  the  imaginary  ones.  Is  he  worthy? 
Can  he  always  provide  for  her?  Is  it  possible  for 
such  a  marvelous  creature  to  love  an  insignificant 
chap  like  himself?  And  that  worst  of  mental 
poisons,  is  she  in  love  with  any  one  else?  What  to 
do  to  win  her?  The  feats  of  Hercules,  of  Perseus, 


H2   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

of  Jason :  what  mad  piece  of  heroism  can  he  lay  his 
hand  to  that  he  may  wake  the  slumbering  fires,  and 
having  roused  them,  continue  to  feed  them? 

Manhood,  meaning  that  decade  between  thirty 
and  forty,  looks  upon  this  phase,  abashed.  After 
all,  it  wasn't  so  terrible ;  there  were  vaster  emotions, 
vaster  achievements  in  life  to  which  in  comparison 
love  was  as  a  candle  held  to  the  sun. 

Again  she  stopped,  leaning  over  the  parapet  and 
staring  down  at  the  water  swirling  past  the  stone 
embankment.  He  did  likewise,  resting  upon  his 
folded  arms.  Suddenly  his  tongue  became  alive; 
and  quietly,  without  hesitancy  or  embarrassment, 
he  began  to  tell  her  of  his  school  life,  his  life  at 
home.  And  the  manner  in  which  he  spoke  of  his 
mother  warmed  her;  and  she  was  strangely  and 
wonderingly  attracted. 

"Of  course,  the  mother  meant  the  best  in  the 
world  when  she  gave  me  Percival  Algernon;  and 
because  she  meant  the  best,  I  have  rarely  tried  to 
hide  them.  What  was  good  enough  for  her  to  give 
was  good  enough  for  me  to  keep.  It  is  simply  that 
I  have  been  foolish  about  it,  supersensitive.  I  should 
have  laughed  and  accepted  the  thing  as  a  joke ;  in- 


MOONLIGHT  AND  POETRY         113 

stead,  I  made  the  fatal  move  of  trying  to  run  away 
and  hide.  But,  taking  the  name  in  full,"  lightly, 
"it  sounds  as  incongruous  as  playing  Traumerei  on 
a  steam-piano." 

He  expected  her  to  laugh,  but  her  heart  was  too 
full  of  the  old  ache.  This  young  man,  kindly,  gentle, 
intelligent,  if  shy,  was  a  love-child.  And  she?  An 
offspring,  the  loneliest  of  the  lonely,  the  child  that 
wasn't  wanted.  Many  a  time  she  had  thought  of 
flinging  all  to  the  winds,  of  running  away  and  hiding 
where  they  never  should  find  her,  of  working  with 
her  own  hands  for  her  bread  and  butter.  Little 
they'd  have  cared.  But  always  the  rebel  spirit  died 
within  her  as  she  stepped  outside  the  villa  gates.  To 
leave  behind  for  unknown  privations  certain  assured 
comforts,  things  of  which  she  was  fond,  things  to 
which  she  was  used,  she  couldn't  do  it,  she  just 
couldn't.  Morally  and  physically  she  was  a  little 
coward. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  she  said  sharply.  Another  mo- 
ment, and  she  would  have  been  in  tears. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RYANNE   TABLES    HIS   CARDS 

DURING  this  time  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  the  Major, 
Messrs.  Ryanne  and  Wallace,  officers  and 
directors  in  the  United  Romance  and  Adventure 
Company,  Ltd.,  sat  in  the  Major's  room,  round  the 
boudoir-stand  which  had  temporarily  been  given  the 
dignity  of  a  table.  The  scene  would  not  have  been 
without  interest  either  to  the  speculative  physiog- 
nomist or  to  the  dramatist.  To  each  it  would  have 
represented  one  of  those  astonishing  moments  when 
the  soul  of  a  person  comes  out  into  the  open,  as  one 
might  express  it,  incautiously,  to  be  revealed  in  the 
expressions  of  the  eyes  and  the  mouth.  These  four 
persons  were  about  going  forward  upon  a  singu- 
larly desperate  and  unusual  enterprise.  From  now 
on  they  were  no  longer  to  fence  with  one  another, 

114 


to  shift  from  this  topic  to  that,  with  the  indirect 
manoeuvers  of  a  house-cat  intent  upon  the  quest  of 
the  Friday  mackerel.  The  woman's  face  was  alive 
with  eagerness;  the  oldest  man  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  with  earnest  calculation ;  Wallace  no  longer 
hid  his  cupidity ;  Ryanne's  immobility  of  countenance 
was  in  itself  a  tacit  admission  to  the  burning  of  all 
his  bridges  that  he  might  become  a  part  of  this 
conclave. 

"Smuggling,"  said  the  Major,  with  prudent  lower- 
ing of  voice,  evidently  continuing  some  previous  de- 
bate, "smuggling  is  a  fine  art,  a  keen  sporting  propo- 
sition ;  and  the  consequences  of  discovery  are  never 
very  serious.  What's  a  fine  of  a  thousand  dollars 
against  the  profits  of  many  successful  excursions  into 
the  port  of  New  York?  Nothing,  comparatively. 
For  several  years,  now,  we  have  carried  on  this 
business  with  the  utmost  adroitness.  Never  have 
we  drawn  serious  attention.  We  have  made  two  or 
three  blunders,  but  the  suspicions  of  the  secret-ser- 
vice were  put  to  sleep  upon  each  occasion.  We  have 
prospered.  Here  is  a  gem,  let  us  say,  worth  on  this 
side  a  thousand ;  over  there  we  sell  it  for  enough  to 
give  us  a  clean  profit  of  three  or  four  hundred. 


u6   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Forty  per  cent,  upon  our  investment.  That  ought  to 
be  enough  for  any  reasonable  person.  Am  I  right?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  alone  was  unresponsive  to  this 
appeal. 

"I  continue,  then.  We  are  making  enough  to  lay 
by  something  for  our  old  age.  And  that's  the  only 
goal  which  never  loses  its  luster.  But  this  affair!" 

"Talk,  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye  impatiently. 

"My  dear  Kate,  allow  me  to  relieve  my  mind." 

"You  have  done  so  till  the  topic  is  threadbare.  It 
is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  go  over  the  ground  again. 
Time  is  everything  just  now." 

"Admitted.  But  this  affair,  Kate,  is  big;  big  with 
dangers,  big  with  pitfalls ;  there  is  a  hidden  menace 
in  every  step  of  it.  Mayhap  death;  who  knows? 
The  older  I  grow,  the  more  I  cling  to  material  com- 
forts, to  enterprises  of  small  dangers.  However, 
as  you  infer,  there's  no  going  back  now." 

"No,"  assented  Ryanne,  his  mouth  hard;  "not 
if  I  have  to  proceed  alone." 

She  smiled  at  him.  "You  talk  of  danger,"  speak- 
ing to  the  Major.  "What  danger  can  there  be  ?" 

"The  unforeseen  danger,  the  danger  of  which  we 
know  nothing,  and  therefore  are  unable  to  prepare 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       117 

for  it.  You  do  not  see  it,  my  dear,  but  it  is  there, 
nevertheless." 

Wallace  nodded  approvingly.    Ryanne  shrugged. 

"Failure  is  practically  impossible.  And  I  want 
excitement;  I  crave  it  as  you  men  crave  your 
tobacco." 

"And  there  we  are,  Kate.  It  really  isn't  the  gold ; 
it's  the  excitement  of  getting  it  and  coming  away 
unscathed.  If  I  could  only  get  you  to  look  at  all  sides 
of  the  affair !  It's  the  Rubicon." 

"I  accept  it  as  such.  I  am  tired  of  petty  things. 
I  repeat,  failure  is  not  possible.  Have  I  not  thought 
it  out,  detail  by  detail,  mapped  out  each  line,  antici- 
pated dangers  by  eliminating  them?" 

"All  but  that  one  danger  of  which  we  know  noth- 
ing. You're  a  great  woman,  Kate.  You  have,  as 
you  say,  made  ninety-nine  dangers  out  of  a  hundred 
impossible.  Let  us  keep  an  eye  out  for  that  hun- 
dredth. Our  photographs  have  yet  to  grace  the 
rogues'  gallery." 

"With  one  exception."  Ryanne's  laughter  was 
sardonic. 

"Whose?"  shot  the  Major. 

"Mine.    A  round  and'youthful  phiz,  a  silky  young 


n8   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mustache.  But  rest  easy ;  there's  no  likeness  between 
that  and  the  original  one  I  wear  now." 

"You  never  told  us  ..."  began  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye. 

"There  was  never  any  need  till  now.  Eight  years 
ago.  Certain  powers  that  be  worked  toward  my 
escape.  But  I  was  never  to  return.  You  will  recol- 
lect that  I  have  always  remained  this  side.  Enough. 
What  I  did  does  not  matter.  I  will  say  this  much : 
my  crime  was  in  being  found  out.  One  venture  into 
New  York  and  out  to  sea  again ;  they  will  not  have 
a  chance.  I  doubt  if  any  could  recall  the  circum- 
stances of  my  meteoric  career.  You  will  observe 
that  I  am  keyed  for  anything.  Let  us  get  to  work. 
It  doesn't  matter,  anyhow." 

"You  did  not    .    .    ."    Mrs.  Chedsoye  hesitated. 

"Blood?"  reading  her  thought.  "No,  Gioconda; 
my  hands  are  guiltless,  at  least  they  were  till  this 
Bagdad  affair;  and  I  am  not  sure  there.  I  was  a 
trusted  clerk;  I  gambled;  I  took  money  that  did 
not  belong  to  me.  And  here  I  am,  room  number 
208." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Come,  Kate;  don't  stare  at 
Hoddy.as  if  he  were  a  new  species."  The  Major 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       119 

smoothed  the  ends  of  his  mustache.  "This  con- 
fession will  be  good  for  his  soul." 

"Yes,  Gioconda;  I  feel  easier  now.  I  am  heart 
and  soul  in  this  affair.  I  need  excitement,  too. 
Lord,  yes.  When  I  went  to  Bagdad,  I  had  no  idea 
that  I  should  ever  lay  eyes  upon  that  rug.  But  I 
did.  And  there's  the  emeralds,  too,  Major." 

The  Major  rubbed  his  hands  pleasurably.  "Yes, 
yes;  the  emeralds;  I  had  not  forgotten  them.  One 
hundred  lovely  green  stones,  worth  not  a  penny 
under  thirty  thousand.  A  fine  collection.  But  an- 
other idea  has  taken  possession  of  this  teeming  brain 
of  mine.  Have  you  noticed  how  this  fellow  Jones 
hovers  about  Fortune?  He's  worth  a  million,  if 
he's  worth  a  cent.  I  am  sure,  in  pure  gratitude, 
she  would  see  to  it  that  her  loved  ones  were  well 
taken  care  of  in  their  old  age." 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Fortune  myself,"  said 
Ryanne  blandly. 

"You?"    The  Major  was  nonplussed. 

Wallace  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily.  This  blon'd 
companion  of  his  was  always  showing  kinks  in  his 
nature,  kinks  that  rarely  ever  straightened  out. 

"Yes.     And  why  not?     What  is  she  to  either 


120   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

you  or  her  mother?  Nothing.  Affection  you  have 
never  given  her,  being  unable.  It  surprises  you; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  love  her,  and  I  am  going  to 
marry  her." 

"Really?"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye. 

"Even  so." 

"You  are  a  fool,  Horace!"  with  rising  fury.  So 
then,  the  child  had  not  jibed  her  in  a  moment  of 
pique? 

"Men  in  love  generally  are  fools.  I've  never 
spoken  before,  because  you  never  absolutely  needed 
me  till  now.  There's  my  cards,  pat." 

Mrs.  Chedsoye's  fury  deepened,  but  not  visibly. 
"You  are  welcome  to  her,  if  she  will  have  you." 

"Yes,"  supplemented  the  Major ;  "if  she  will  have 
you,  my  friend,  take  her,  and  our  benedictions." 

Ryanne's  shoulders  stirred  suggestively. 

"Of  course,  I  expect  to  have  the  final  word  to 
say  on  the  subject.  She  is  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs. 
Chedsoye. 

"A  trifling  accident,  my  dear  Gioconda,"  smiled 
Ryanne;  "merely  that." 

"Just  a  little  oil,  just  a  little  oil,"  the  Major 
pleaded  anxiously.  "Dash  it  all,  this  is  no  time  for 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       121 

a  row  of  this  silly  order.  But  it's  always  the  way," 
irritably.  "A  big  enterprise,  demanding  a  single 
purpose,  and  a  trifle  like  this  to  upset  it  all !" 

"I  am  ready  for  business  at  any  moment." 

"And  you,  Kate?" 

"We'll  say  no  more  about  it  till  the  affair  is  over. 
After  that  .  .  ." 

"Those  who  live  will  see,  eh?"  Ryanne  rolled  a 
cigarette. 

"To  business,  then.  In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Jones 
must  not  reach  the  Ludwig." 

"He  will  not."  Ryanne  spoke  with  quiet  assur- 
ance. 

"He  will  not  even  see  that  boat,"  added  Wallace, 
glad  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice  again. 

"Good.    But,  mind,  no  rough  work." 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  Ryanne.  "The  United 
Romance  and  Adventure  Company  will  give  him  an 
adventure  on  approval,  as  it  were." 

"To  you,  then.  The  report  from  New  York  reads 
encouragingly.  Our  friends  there  are  busy.  They 
are  merely  waiting  for  us.  From  now  on  Percival 
Algernon  must  receive  no  more  mail,  telegrams  or 
cables." 


122   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I'll  take  care  of  that  also."  Ryanne  looked  at 
Mrs.  Chedsoye  musingly. 

"His  real-estate  agent  will  wire  him,  possibly  to- 
morrow." 

"In  that  event,  he  will  receive  a  cable  signifying 
that  the  transaction  is  perfectly  correct." 

"He  may  also  inquire  as  to  what  to  do  with  the 
valuables  in  the  wall-safe." 

"He  will  be  instructed  to  touch  nothing,  as  the 
people  who  will  occupy  the  house  are  old  friends." 
Ryanne  smoked  calmly. 

"Wallace,  you  will  return  to  New  York  at  once." 

"I  thought  I  was  wanted  here?" 

"No  longer." 

"All  right;  I'm  off.  I'll  sail  on  the  Prince  Lud- 
wig,  state-room  1 18.  I'll  have  my  joke  by  the  way." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  will  have 
a  state-room  by  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
crisply.  "And  no  wine,  no  cards.  If  you  fail,  I'll 
break  you.  .  .  ." 

"As  we  would  a  churchwarden's  pipe,  Wallace, 
my  lad."  Ryanne  gripped  his  companion  by  the 
shoulder,  and  there  was  enough  pressure  in  the  grip 
to  cause  the  recipient  to  wince. 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       123 

"Well,  well;  I'll  lay  a  straight  course."  Wallace 
slid  his  shoulder  from  under  Ryanne's  hand. 

"To  you,  then,  Hoddy,  the  business  of  quarantin- 
ing our  friend  Percival.  Don't  hurt  him;  simply 
detain  him.  You  must  realize  the  importance  of 
this.  Have  you  your  plans?" 

"I'll  perfect  them  to-morrow.  I  shall  find  a  way, 
never  fear." 

"Does  the  rug  come  in  anywhere?"  The  Major 
was  curious.  It  sometimes  seemed  to  him  that 
Ryanne  did  not  always  lay  his  cards  face  up  upon 
the  table. 

"It  will  play  its  part.  Besides,  I  am  rather  in- 
clined to  the  idea  of  taking  it  back.  It  may  be  the 
old  wishing-carpet.  In  that  case,  it  will  come  in 
handy.  Who  knows?" 

"How  much  is  it  worth?" 

"Ah,  Major,  Percival  himself  could  not  say  ex- 
actly. He  gave  me  a  thousand  pounds  for  it." 

"A  thousand  pounds!"  murmured  Wallace. 

The  Major  struck  his  hands  lightly  together. 
Whether  in  applause  or  wonder  he  alone  knew. 

"And  it  was  worth  every  shilling  of  it,  too.  I'll 
tell  you  the  story  some  day.  There  are  a  dozen 


124   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ways  of  suppressing  Percival,  but   I  must  have 
something  appealing  to  my  artistic  side." 

"You  have  never  told  us  your  real  name,  Horace," 
Mrs.  Chedsoye  bent  toward  him. 
*      He  laughed.    "I  must  have  something  to  confess 
to  you  in  the  future,  dear  Gioconda." 

"Well,  the  meeting  adjourns,  sine  die." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Fortune?"  de- 
manded Ryanne. 

"Send  her  back  to  Mentone." 

"What  the  deuce  did  you  bring  her  here  for, 
knowing  what  was  in  the  wind  ?" 

"She  expressed  a  desire  to  see  Cairo  again,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Chedsoye. 

"We  never  deny  her  anything."    The  Major  rose 
and  yawned  suggestively. 

In  the  corridor,  Ryanne  whispered  softly:  "Why 
not,  Gioconda?" 

"She  shall  never  marry  a  man  of  your  stamp," 
^coldly. 

"Charming   mother!     How   tenderly   you   have 
cherished  her!" 

"Horace,"  calmly  enough,  "is  it  wise  to  anger 
me?" 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       125 

"It  may  not  be  wise,  but  I  have  never  seen  you 
in  a  rage.  You  would  be  magnificent." 

"Cease  this  foolery,"  patiently.  "I  am  in  no  mood 
for  it  to-night.  As  an  associate  in  this  equivocal 
business,  you  do  very  well ;  you  are  necessary.  But 
do  not  presume  too  much  upon  that.  For  all  that  I 
may  not  have  been  what  a  mother  should  be,  I  still 
have  some  self-respect.  So  long  as  I  have  any  power 
over  her,  Fortune  shall  never  marry  a  man  so  far 
down  in  the  social  scale  as  yourself." 

"Social  scale?  Gioconda,  how  you  hurt  me!" 
mockingly.  "I  should  really  like  to  know  what 
your  idea  of  that  invincible  barrier  is.  Is  it  be- 
cause my  face  is  in  the  rogues'  gallery?  Surely, 
you  would  not  be  cruel!" 

"She  is  far  above  us  all,  my  friend,"  continuing 
unruffled.  "Sometimes  I  stand  in  absolute  awe 
of  her." 

"A  marvel!  If  my  recollection  is  not  at  fault, 
many  a  man  has  entered  the  Villa  Fanny,  with  a 
view  to  courtship,  men  beside  whom  I  am  as  Roland 
to  the  lowest  Saracen.  You  never  objected  to 
them." 

"They  had  money  and  position." 


126      THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Magic  talisman!  And  if  I  had  money  and  po- 
sition?" 

"My  objections  would  be  no  less  strong." 

"Your  code  puzzles  me.  You  would  welcome  as 
a  son-in-law  a  man  who  stole  openly  the  widow's 
mite,  while  I,  who  harass  none  but  the  predatory 
rich,  must  dwell  in  the  outland?  Rank  injustice!" 

"You  couldn't  take  care  of  her." 

"Yes,  I  could.  With  but  little  effort  I  could  make 
these  two  hands  as  honest  as  the  day  is  long." 

"I  have  my  doubts,"  smiling  a  little. 

"Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  an  argument,  suppose 
Fortune  accepted  me?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye's  good  humor  returned.  She  knew 
her  daughter  tolerably  well;  the  child  had  a  horror 
of  men.  "Poor  Horace !  Do  you  build  upon  that  ?" 

"Less,  perhaps,  than  upon  my  own  bright  inven- 
tion. My  suit,  then,  to  be  brief,  is  rejected?" 

"Emphatically.    I  have  spoken." 

"Oh,  well ;  the  feminine  prerogative  shall  be  mine, 
the  last  word.  Good  night;  dormi  bene!"  He 
•bowed  grandly  and  turned  toward  his  own  room. 

He  possessed  that  kind  of  mockery  which  was  the 
despair  of  those  at  whom  it  was  directed.  They 


127 

never  knew  whether  his  mood  was  one  of  harmless 
fun  or  of  deadly  intent.  And  rather  than  mistake 
the  one  quality  for  the  other,  they  generally  pre- 
tended to  ignore.  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  who  had  a  simi- 
lar talent,  was  one  of  the  few  who  felt  along  the 
wall  as  one  does  in  the  dark,  instinctively.  To- 
night she  recognized  that  there  was  no  harmless  fun 
but  a  real  desperateness  behind  the  mask;  and  she 
had  held  in  her  temper  with  a  firm  hand.  This  was 
not  the  hour  for  a  clash.  She  shivered  a  little;  and 
for  the  first  time  in  the  six  or  seven  years  she  had 
known  him,  she  faced  a  fear  of  him.  His  great 
strength,  his  reckless  courage,  his  subtle  way  of 
mastering  men  by  appearing  to  be  mastered  by  them, 
held  her  in  the  thrall  of  a  peculiar  fascination  which, 
in  quiet  periods,  she  looked  upon  as  something 
deeper.  Marriage  was  not  to  her  an  ideal  state, 
nor  was  there  any  man,  living  or  dead,  who  had 
appealed  to  the  physical  side  of  her.  But  he  was 
in  the  one  sex  what  she  was  in  the  other;  and 
while  she  herself  would  never  have  married  him, 
she  raged  inwardly  at  the  possibility  of  his  want- 
ing another  woman. 

To  her  the  social  fabric  which  holds  humanity  to- 


128   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

gether  was  merely  a  convenience;  the  moral  sig- 
nificance touched  neither  her  heart  nor  her  mind. 
In  her  the  primordial  craving  for  ease,  for  material 
comforts,  pretty  trinkets  and  gowns  was  strongest 
developed.  It  was  as  if  this  sense  had  been  handed 
down  to  her,  untouched  by  contact  with  progression, 
from  the  remote  ages,  that  time  between  the  fall 
of  Roman  civilization  and  where  modern  civiliza- 
tion began.  In  short,  a  beautiful  barbarian,  whose 
intellect  alone  had  advanced. 

Fortune  was  asleep.  The  mother  went  over  to 
the  bed  and  gently  shook  the  slim,  round  arm 
which  lay  upon  the  coverlet.  The  child's  nature 
lay  revealed  as  she  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled.  It 
did  not  matter  that  the  smile  instantly  changed  to 
a  frowning  inquiry.  The  mother  spoke  truly  when 
she  said  that  there  were  times  when  she  stood  in 
awe  of  this,  her  flesh  and  blood. 

"My  child,  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  for 
your  own  good  answer  truthfully.  Do  you  love 
Horace?" 

Fortune  sat  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  "No."  Had 
her  wits  been  less  scattered  she  might  have  paltered. 

The  syllable  had  a  finality  to  it  that  reassured  the 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       129 

mother  more  than  a  thousand  protestations  would 
have  done. 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

Fortune  lay  down  again  and  drew  the  coverlet 
up  to  her  chin.  With  her  eyes  shut  she  waited, 
but  in  vain.  Her  mother  disrobed  and  sought  her 
own  bed. 

Ryanne  was  intensely  dissatisfied  with  himself. 
For  once  his  desperate  mood  had  carried  him  too 
far.  He  had  made  too  many  confessions,  had  an- 
tagonized a  woman  who  was  every  bit  as  clever 
and  ingenious  as  himself.  The  enterprise  toward 
which  they  were  moving  held  him  simply  because 
it  was  an  exploit  that  enticed  wholly  his  twisted 
outlook  upon  life.  There  was  a  forbidding  humor  in 
the  whole  affair,  too,  which  he  alone  saw.  The  pos- 
sible rewards  were  to  him  of  secondary  considera- 
tion. It  was  the  fun  of  the  thing.  It  was  the  fun 
of  the  thing  that  had  put  him  squarely  upon  the 
wide,  short  road  to  perdition,  which  had  made  him 
first  a  spendthrift,  then  a  thief.  The  fun  of  the 
thing:  sinister  phrase!  A  thousand  times  had  he 
longed  to  go  back,  for  he  wasn't  all  bad;  but  door 
after  door  had  shut  behind  him;  and  now  the  single 


130   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

purpose  was  to  get  to  the  end  of  the  road  by  the 
shortest  route. 

He  did  not  deceive  himself.  His  desperate  mood 
was  the  result  of  an  infernal  rage  against  himself, 
a  rage  against  the  weakness  of  his  heart.  Fortune 
Chedsoye.  Why  had  she  not  crossed  his  path  at 
that  time  when  he  might  have  been  saved  ?  And  yet, 
would  she  have  saved  him?  God  alone  knew. 

He  heard  Jones  stirring  in  his  room  next  door. 
Presently  all  became  still.  To  sleep  like  that!  He 
shrugged,  threw  off  his  coat,  swept  the  cover  from 
the  stand,  found  a  pack  of  cards,  and  played  soli- 
taire till  the  first  pallor  of  dawn  announced  the  new 
day. 

Reclining  snugly  against  the  parapet,  wrapped  in 
his  tattered  arbiyeh,  or  cloak,  his  head  pillowed 
upon  his  lean  arm,  motionless  with  that  pretended 
sleep  of  the  watcher,  Mahomed-El-Gebel  kept  his 
vigil.  Miles  upon  miles  he  had  come,  across 
three  bleak,  cold,  blinding  deserts,  on  camels,  in 
trains,  on  camels  again,  night  and  day,  day  and 
night,  across  the  soundless,  yellow  plains.  Allah 
was  good  to  the  true  believer.  The  night  was 
chill,  but  certain  fires  warmed  his  blood.  All  day 


RYANNE  TABLES  HIS  CARDS       131 

long  he  had  followed  the  accursed,  lying  giaour, 
but  never  once  had  he  wandered  into  the  native 
quarters  of  the  city.  Patience!  What  was  a  day, 
a  week,  a  year?  Grains  of  sand.  He  could  wait. 
Inshallal 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PURLOINED  CABLE 

GEORGE,  having  made  his  bargain  with  con- 
science relative  to  the  Yhiordes  rug,  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  untroubled,  of  the  just,  of  the  man 
who  had  nothing  in  particular  to  get  up  for.  In 
fact,  after  having  drunk  his  breakfast  cocoa  and 
eaten  his  buttered  toast,  he  evinced  his  satisfac- 
tion by  turning  his  face  away  from  the  attracting 
morning  light  and  passing  off  into  sleep  again. 
And  thereby  hangs  this  tale. 

So  much  depended  upon  his  getting  his  mail  as 
it  came  in  that  morning,  that  Fate  herself  must 
have  resisted  sturdily  the  desire  to  shake  him  by 
the  shoulder.  Perhaps  she  would  have  done  so 
but  for  the  serenity  of  his  pose  and  the  infantile 
smile  that  lingered  for  a  while  round  his  lips.  Fate, 
as  with  most  of  us,  has  her  sentimental  lapses. 

132 


THE   PURLOINED   CABLE  133 

The  man  next  door,  having  no  conscience  to  speak 
of  (indeed,  he  had  derailed  her  while  passing  his 
twentieth  meridian!),  was  up  betimes.  He  had 
turned  in  at  four;  at  six  he  was  strolling  about  the 
deserted  lounging-room,  watching  the  entrances.  It 
is  inconceivable  how  easily  mail  may  be  purloined 
in  a  large  hotel.  There  are  as  many  ways  as  points 
to  the  wind.  Ryanne  chose  the  simplest.  He  waited 
for  the  mail-bag  to  be  emptied  upon  the  head- 
porter's  counter.  Nonchalantly,  but  deftly,  while 
the  porter  looked  on,  the  adventurer  ran  through 
the  bulk.  He  found  three  letters  and  a  cable,  the 
latter  having  been  received  by  George's  bankers 
the  day  before  and  mailed  directly  to  the  hotel. 
The  porter  had  no  suspicion  that  a  bold  theft  was 
being  committed  under  his  very  eyes.  Moreover, 
circumstances  prevented  his  ever  learning  of  it. 
Ryanne  stuffed  the  spoils  into  a  pocket. 

"If  any  one  asks  for  me,"  he  said,  "say  that  I 
shall  be  at  my  banker's,  the  Anglo-Egyptian 
Bank,  at  ten  o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  porter,  as  he  began  to  sort 
the  rest  of  the  mail,  not  forgetting  to  peruse  the 
postals. 


134   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Ryanne  went  out  into  the  street,  walking  rapidly 
into  town.  Mahomed-El-Gebel  shook  the  folds 
of  his  cloak  and  followed.  The  adventurer  did  not 
slacken  his  gait  till  he  reached  Shepheard's  Hotel. 
Upon  the  steps  he  paused.  Some  English  troops 
were  marching  past,  on  the  way  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion; the  usual  number  of  natives  were  patrolling 
the  sidewalks,  dangling  strings  of  imitation  scarabs ; 
a  caravan  of  pack-camels,  laden  with  cotton,  shuf- 
fled by  haughtily;  a  blind  beggar  sat  on  the  curb 
in  front,  munching  a  piece  of  sugar-cane.  Ryanne, 
assured  that  no  one  he  knew  was  about,  proceeded 
into  the  writing-room,  wholly  deserted  at  this  early 
hour. 

He  sat  down  at  a  desk  and  opened  the  cable.  It 
contained  exactly  what  he  expected.  It  was  a  call 
for  advice  in  regard  to  the  rental  of  Mr.  George 
P.  A.  Jones's  mansion  in  New  York  and  the  tem- 
porary disposing  of  the  loose  valuables.  Ryanne 
read  it  over  a  dozen  times,  with  puckered 
brow,  and  finally  balled  it  fiercely  in  his 
fist.  Fool!  He  could  not,  at  that  mo- 
ment, remember  the  most  essential  point  in 
the  game,  the  name  and  office  of  the  agent  to 


THE   PURLOINED  CABLE  135 

whom  he  must  this  very  morning  send  reply.  Hur- 
riedly he  fished  out  the  letters ;  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand. He  swore,  but  in  relief.  In  the  corner  of 
one  of  the  letters  he  saw  that  for  some  unknown 
reason  the  gods  were  still  with  him.  Reynolds  and 
Reynolds,  estates,  Broad  Street;  he  remembered. 
He  wrote  out  a  reply  on  a  piece  of  hotel  paper, 
intending  to  copy  it  off  at  the  cable-office.  This 
reply  covered  the  ground  convincingly.  "Renting 
for  two  months.  Old  friends.  Leave  things  as 
they  are.  P.  A."  The  initials  were  a  little  stroke. 
From  some  source  Ryanne  had  picked  up  the 
fact  that  Jones's  business  correspondence  was  con- 
ducted over  those  two  initials.  He  tore  up  the 
cable  into  small  illegible  squares  and  dropped 
some  into  one  basket  and  some  into  another. 
Next,  he  readdressed  George's  mail  to  Leipzig; 
another  stroke,  meaning  a  delay  of  two  or  three 
months;  from  the  head  office  of  his  banker's  there 
to  Paris,  Paris  to  Naples,  Naples  to  New  York. 
That  Ryanne  did  not  open  these  letters  was  in  no- 
wise due  to  moral  suasion;  whatever  they  con- 
tained could  be  of  no  vital  importance  to  him. 
"Now,  Horace,  we  shall  bend  the  crook  of  our 


136   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

elbow  in  the  bar-room.  The  reaction  warrants  a 
stimulant." 

An  hour  later  the  whole  affair  was  nicely  off  his 
hands.  The  cable  had  cost  him  three  sovereigns. 
But  what  was  that?  Niente,  rien;  nothing;  a  mere 
bagatelle.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  a  sense  of 
security  invaded  his  being. 

It  was  by  now  nine  o'clock ;  and  Percival  Alger- 
non still  reposed  upon  his  bed  of  ease.  Let  him 
sleep.  Many  days  were  to  pass  ere  he  would  again 
know  the  comfort  of  linen  sheets,  the  luxury  of 
down  under  his  ear. 

What  to  do?  mused  the  rogue.  On  the  morrow 
Mr.  Jones  would  leave  for  Port  Said.  Ryanne 
shook  his  head  and  with  his  cane  beat  a  light  tattoo 
against  the  side  of  his  shin.  Abduction  was  rather 
out  of  his  sphere  of  action.  And  yet,  the  suppres- 
sion of  Percival  was  by  all  odds  the  most  important 
move  to  be  made.  He  had  volunteered  this  service 
and  accomplish  it  he  must,  in  face  of  all  obstacles, 
or  poof!  went  the  whole  droll  fabric.  For  to  him 
it  was  droll,  and  never  it  rose  in  his  mind  that  he 
did  not  chuckle  saturninely.  It  was  a  kind  of  night- 
mare where  one  hung  in  mid-air,  one's  toes  just  be- 


THE   PURLOINED   CABLE  137 

yond  the  flaming  dragon's  jaws.  The  rewards 
would  be  enormous,  but  these  he  would  gladly  sur- 
render for  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  turning  the 
poisoned  arrow  in  the  heart  of  that  canting  hypo- 
crite, that  smug  church-deacon,  the  sanctimon- 
ious, the  sleek,  the  well-fed  first-born.  And  poor 
Percival  Algernon,  for  no  blame  of  his  own,  must 
be  taken  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  thrust 
bodily  into  this  tangled  web  of  scheme  and  under- 
scheme.  It  was  infinitely  humorous. 

He  had  had  a  vague  plan  regarding  Mahomed, 
guardian  of  the  Holy  Yhiordes,  but  it  was  not  pos- 
sible for  him  to  be  in  Cairo  at  this  early  date.  That 
he  would  eventually  appear  Ryanne  never  doubted. 
He  knew  the  Oriental  mind.  Mahomed-El-Gebel 
would  cross  every  barrier  less  effective  than  death. 
It  was  a  serious  matter  to  the  Moslem.  If  he  re- 
turned to  the  palace  at  Bagdad,  minus  the  rug,  it 
would  mean  free  transportation  to  the  Arabian 
Gulf,  bereft  of  the  most  important  part  of  his  ex- 
cellent anatomy,  his  head.  Some  day,  if  he  lived, 
Ryanne  intended  telling  the  exploit  to  some 
clever  chap  who  wrote;  it  would  look  rather  well 
in  print. 


138   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

To  turn  Mahomed  against  Percival  as  being  the 
instigator  would  be  an  adroit  bit  of  work;  and  it 
would  rid  him  of  both  of  them.  Gioconda  said  that 
she  wanted  no  rough  work.  How  like  a  woman! 
Here  was  a  man's  game,  a  desperate  one ;  and  Gio- 
conda, not  forgetting  that  it  was  her  inspiration, 
wanted  it  handled  with  gloves!  It  was  bare-hand 
work,  and  the  sooner  she  was  made  to  realize  this, 
the  better.  It  was  no  time  for  tuning  fiddles. 

Mahomed  out  of  it,  there  was  a  certain  English- 
Bar  in  the  Quarter  Rosetti,  a  place  of  dubious  repute. 
Many  derelicts  drifted  there  in  search  of  employ- 
ment still  more  dubious.  Dregs,  scum;  the  bottom 
and  the  top  of  the  kettle ;  outcasts,  whose  hand  and 
animus  were  directed  against  society;  black  and 
brown  and  white  men;  not  soldiers  of  fortune,  like 
Ryanne,  but  their  camp-followers.  In  short,  it 
was  there  (and  Ryanne  still  felt  a  dull  shame  of 
it)  that  Wallace,  carrying  the  final  instructions  of 
the  enterprise,  had  found  him,  sleeping  off  the  ef- 
fects of  a  shabby  rout  of  the  night  before.  It  was 
there  also  that  he  had  heard  of  the  history  and  the 
worth  of  the  Yhiordes  rug  and  the  possibility  of 
its  theft.  He  laughed.  To  have  gone  ugon  an 


THE   PURLOINED  CABLE  139 

adventure  like  that,  with  nothing  but  the  fumes  of 
wine  in  his  head! 

For  a  few  pieces  of  gold  he  might  enroll  under 
his  shady  banner  three  or  four  shining  lights  who 
would  undertake  the  disposal  of  Percival.  Not  that 
he  wished  the  young  man  any  harm — no;  but  busi- 
ness was  business,  and  in  some  way  or  another  he 
must  be  made  to  vanish  from  the  sight  and  pres- 
ence of  men  for  at  least  two  months. 

As  for  Major  Callahan's  unforeseen  danger,  the 
devil  could  look  out  for  that. 

Ryanne  consulted  his  watch,  a  cheap  but  trust- 
worthy article,  costing  a  dollar,  not  to  be  considered 
as  an  available  asset.  He  would  give  it  away  later 
in  the  day ;  for  he  had  decided  that  while  he  was  in 
funds  there  would  be  wisdom  in  the  purchase  of  a 
fine  gold  Longines.  A  good  watch,  as  every  one 
knows,  is  always  as  easily  converted  into  cash  as 
a  London  bank-note,  providing,  of  course,  one  is 
lucky  enough  to  possess  either.  Many  watches  had 
he  left  behind,  in  this  place  or  in  that;  and  often  he 
had  exchanged  the  ticket  for  a  small  bottle  with  a 
green  neck.  Wherever  fortune  had  gone  against 
him  heavily  at  cards,  there  he  might  find  his 


140   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

latest  watch.  Besides  getting  a  new  time-piece,  he 
was  strongly  inclined  to  leave  the  bulk  of  his 
little  fortune  in  the  hotel-safe.  One  never  could 
tell. 

And  another  good  idea,  he  mused,  as  he  swung 
the  time-piece  into  his  vest-pocket,  would  be  to 
add  the  splendor  of  a  small  white  stone  to  his 
modest  scarf.  There  is  only  one  well-defined 
precept  among  the  sporting  fraternity:  when 
flush,  buy  jewelry.  Not  to  the  cause  of  vanity, 
not  at  all;  but  precious  stones  and  gold  watches 
constitute  a  kind  of  reserve-fund  against  the  evil 
day.  When  one  has  money  in  the  pocket  the  hand 
is  quick  and  eager  to  find  it.  But  jewelry  is  pro- 
tected by  a  certain  quality  of  caution;  it  is  not  too 
readily  passed  over  bars  and  gaming-tables.  While 
the  pawnbroker  stands  between  the  passion  and 
the  green-baize,  there's  food  for  thought. 

Having  settled  these  questions  to  his  satisfaction, 
there  remained  but  one  other,  how-to  spend  his  time. 
It  would  be  useless  to  seek  the  English-Bar  before 
noon.  Might  as  well  ramble  through  the  native 
town  and  the  bazaars.  He  might  pick  up  some  little 
curio  to  give  to  Fortune.  So  he  beckoned  to  an 


THE  PURLOINED  CABLE          141 

idle  driver,   climbed   into   the  carriage,  and  was 
driven  off  as  if  empires  hung  upon  minutes. 

Ryanne  never  wearied  of  the  bazaars  in  Cairo. 
They  were  to  him  no  less  enchanting  than  the 
circus-parades  of  his  youth.  In  certain  ways,  they 
were  not  to  be  compared  with  those  in  Constanti- 
nople and  Smyrna;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
was  more  light,  more  charm,  more  color.  Perhaps 
the  magic  nearness  of  the  desert  had  something 
to  do  with  it,  the  rainless  skies,  the  ever-recurring 
suggestions  of  antiquity.  His  lively  observation, 
his  sense  of  the  picturesque  and  the  humorous, 
always  close  to  the  surface,  gave  him  that  singular 
impetus  which  makes  man  a  prowler.  This  gift 
had  made  possible  his  success  in  old  Bagdad.  Some 
years  before  he  had  prowled  through  the  narrow 
city  streets,  had  noted  the  windings,  the  blind- 
alleys,  and  had  never  forgotten.  Faces  and  locali- 
ties were  written  indelibly  upon  his  memory. 

One  rode  to  the  bazaars,  but  walked  through  them 
or  mounted  donkeys.  Ryanne  preferred  his  own 
legs.  So  did  Mahomed.  Once,  so  close  did  he  come 
that  he  could  have  put  his  two  brown  hands  round 
the  infidel's  throat.  But,  patience.  Did  not  the 


142   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Koran  teach  patience  among  the  higher  laws  ?  Pa- 
tience. He  could  not,  madly  as  he  had  dreamed, 
throttle  the  white  liar  here  in  the  bazaars.  That 
would  not  bring  the  Holy  Yhiordes  to  his  hands. 
He  must  wait.  He  must  plan  to  lure  the  man  out 
at  night,  then  to  hurry  him  into  the  desert.  Out 
into  the  desert,  where  no  man  might  be  his  master. 
Oh,  the  Holy  Yhiordes  should  be  his  again;  it  was 
written. 

The  cries,  the  shouts,  the  tower  of  Babel  re- 
claimed ;  the  intermingling  of  the  races  of  the  world : 
the  Englishman,  the  American,  the  German,  the 
Italian,  the  Frenchman,  the  Greek,  the  Levantine, 
the  purple-black  Ethiopian,  the  bronze  Nubian; 
the  veiled  women,  the  naked  children;  all  the 
color-tones  known  to  art,  but  predominating, 
that  marvelous  faded  tint  of  blue,  the  Cairene 
blue,  in  the  heavens,  in  the  waters,  in  the  dyes. 

"Make  way,  O  my  mother!"  bawled  a  donkey- 
boy  to  the  old  crone  peddling  matches. 

"Backsheesh !  Backsheesh !"  in  the  eight  tones  of 
the  human  voice.  From  the  beggar,  his  brother, 
his  uncle,  his  grandfather,  his  children  and  his  chil- 
dren's children.  "Backsheesh,  backsheesh!" 


THE   PURLOINED   CABLE  143 

"To  the  right!"  was  shrilled  into  Ryanne's  ear; 
and  he  dodged.  A  troop  of  donkeys  passed,  laden 
with  tourists,  unhappy,  fretful,  self-conscious.  A 
water-carrier  brushed  against  him,  and  he  whiffed 
the  fresh  dampness  of  the  bulging  goat-skin.  A 
woman,  the  long,  black  head-veil  streaming  out 
behind  in  the  clutch  of  the  monkey-like  hand  of  a 
toddling  child,  carried  a  terra-cotta  water-jar 
upon  her  head.  The  grace  with  which  she  moved, 
the  abruptness  of  the  color-changes,  caught 
Ryanne's  roving  eye  and  filled  it  with  pleasure. 

Dust  rose  and  subsided,  eddied  and  settled;  beg- 
gars blind  and  one-eyed  squatted  in  it,  children 
tossed  it  in  play,  and  beasts  of  burden  shuffled 
through  it. 

The  roar  in  front  of  the  shops,  the  pressing  and 
crowding  of  customers,  the  high  cries  of  the  mer- 
chants; the  gurgle  of  the  water-pipes,  the  pleasant 
fumes  of  coffee,  the  hardy  loafers  lolling  before  the 
khans  or  caravansaries;  a  veiled  face  at  a  lattice- 
window  ;  the  violet  shadows  in  a  doorway ;  the  sun- 
shine upon  the  soaring  mosques;  a  true  believer, 
rocking  and  mumbling  over  his  tattered  Koran ;  gold 
and  silver  and  jewels ;  amber  and  copper  and  brass ; 


144   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

embroideries  and  rugs  and  carpets;  and  the  pest  of 
fleas,  the  plague  of  flies,  the  insidious  smells. 

Rarely  one  saw  the  true  son  of  the  desert,  the 
Bedouin.  He  disdained  streets  and  walls,  and  only 
necessity  brought  him  here  among  the  polyglot  and 
the  polygon. 

Ryanne  found  himself  inspecting  "the  largest 
emerald  in  the  world,  worth  twelve  thousand 
pounds/'  which  looked  more  like  a  fine  hexagonal 
of  onyx  than  a  gem.  It  was  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  the  bazaars,  however,  and  tourists  were  generally 
round  it  in  force.  To  his  experienced  eye  it  was 
no  more  than  a  fine  specimen  of  emerald  quartz, 
worth  what  any  fool  of  a  collector  was  willing  to 
pay  for  it.  From  this  bazaar  he  passed  on  into  the 
next,  and  there  he  saw  Fortune. 

And  as  Mahomed,  always  close  at  hand,  saw  the 
hard  lines  in  Ryanne's  face  soften,  the  cynical  smile 
become  tender,  he  believed  he  saw  his  way  to  strike. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    BITTER    FRUIT 

FORTUNE  had  a  hearty  contempt  for  persons 
who  ate  their  breakfast  in  bed.  For  her  the 
glory  of  the  day  was  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  morn- 
ing, when  every  one's  step  was  buoyant,  and  all 
life  stirred  energetically.  There  was  cheer  and  hope 
everywhere;  men  faced  their  labors  with  clear  eye 
and  feared  nothing;  women  sang  at  their  work.  It 
was  only  at  the  close  of  day  that  despair  and  defeat 
stalked  the  highways.  So  she  was  up  with  the  sun, 
whether  in  her  own  garden  or  in  these  odd  and 
mystical  cities.  Thus  she  saw  the  native  as  he  was, 
not  as  he  later  in  the  day  pretended  to  be,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Feringhi  about  to  be  stretched  upon  the 
sacrificial  stone.  She  saw,  with  gladness,  the  honey- 
bee thirling  the  rose,  the  plowman's  share  baring 

145 


146   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

the  soil :  the  morning,  the  morning,  the  two  or  three 
hours  that  were  all,  all  her  own.  Her  mother  was 
always  irritable  and  petulant  in  the  morning,  and 
her  uncle  never  developed  the  gift  of  speech  till 
after  luncheon. 

She  had  the  same  love  of  prowling  that  lured 
Ryanne  from  the  beaten  paths.  She  was  not  in- 
quisitive but  curious,  and  that  ready  disarming  smile 
of  hers  opened  many  a  portal. 

She  was  balancing  upon  her  gloved  palm,  thought- 
fully, a  Soudanese  head-trinket,  a  pendant  of  twisted 
gold-wires,  flawed  emeralds  and  second  pearls,  really 
exquisite  and  not  generally  to  be  found  outside  the 
expensive  shops  in  the  European  quarters,  and  there 
infrequently.  The  merchant  wanted  twenty  pounds 
for  it.  Fortune  shook  her  head,  regretfully.  It  was 
far  beyond  her  means.  She  sighed.  Only  once 
in  a  great  while  she  saw  something  for  which  her 
whole  heart  cried  out.  This  pendant  was  one  of 
these. 

"I  will  give  you  five  pounds  for  it.  That  is  all 
I  have  with  me." 

"Salaam,  madame,"  said  the  jeweler,  reaching 
for  the  pendant. 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  147 

"If  you  will  send  it  to  the  Hotel  Semiramis  this 
afternoon  .  .  ."  But  she  faltered  at  the  sight  of 
the  merchant's  incredulous  smile. 

'Til  give  you  ten  for  it;  not  a  piastre  more.  I 
can  get  one  like  it  in  the  Sharia  Kamel  for  that 
amount." 

Both  Fortune  and  the  merchant  turned. 

"You,  Horace?" 

"Yes,  my  child.  And  what  are  you  doing  here 
alone,  without  a  dragoman?" 

"Oh,  I  have  been  through  here  alone  many  times. 
I'm  not  afraid.  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  He  wants  twenty 
pounds  for  it,  and  I  can  not  afford  that." 

She  had  not  seen  him  in  many  weeks,  yet  she  ac- 
cepted his  sudden  appearance  without  question  or 
surprise.  She  was  used  to  his  turning  up  at  un- 
expected moments.  Of  course,  she  had  known  that 
he  was  in  Cairo :  where  her  mother  and  uncle  were 
this  secretive  man  was  generally  within  calling. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  eagerly  plied 
him  with  questions,  but  he  had  always  erected  bar- 
riers of  evasion,  and  finally  she  ceased  her  importuni- 
ties, for  she  concluded  that  her  questions  were  such. 
No  matter  to  whom  she  turned,  there  was  no  one  to 


148   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

answer  her  questions,  questions  born  of  doubt  and 
fear. 

"Ten  pounds,"  repeated  Ryanne,  a  hand  in  his 
pocket. 

The  merchant  laughed.  Here  were  a  young  man 
and  his  sweetheart.  His  experience  had  taught  him, 
and  not  unwisely,  that  love  is  an  easy  victim,  too 
proud  to  haggle,  too  generous  to  bargain  sharply. 
"Twenty,"  he  reiterated. 

"Salaam !"  said  Ryanne.  "Good  day !"  He  drew 
the  somewhat  resisting  hand  of  Fortune  under  his 
arm  and  made  for  the  door.  "Sh!"  he  whispered. 
"Leave  it  to  me."  They  gained  the  street. 

The  merchant  was  dazed.  He  had  misjudged 
what  he  now  recognized  as  an  old  hand.  The  two 
were  turning  up  another  street  when  he  ran  out, 
shouting  to  them  and  waving  the  pendant.  Ryanne 
laughed. 

"Ten  pounds.  I  am  a  poor  man,  effendi,  and  I 
need  the  money.  Ten  pounds.  I  am  giving  it 
away."  The  merchant's  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
a  trick  left  to  him  from  out  the  ruins  of  his  youth, 
that  ready  service  to  forestall  the  merited  rod. 

Ryanne  counted  out  ten  sovereigns  and  put  the 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  149 

pendant  in  Fortune's  hand.  And  the  pleasure  in  his 
heart  was  such  as  he  had  not  known  in  many  days. 
The  merchant  wisely  hurried  back  to  his  shop. 

"But     .     .     ."     she  began  protestingly. 

"Tut,  tut!    I  have  known  you  since  you  wore 
short  dresses  and  tam-o'-shanters." 

"I  really  can  not  accept  it  as  a  gift.    Let  me  bor- 
row the  ten  pounds." 

"And  why  can't  you  accept  this  little  gift  from 
me?" 

She  had  no  ready  answer.  She  gazed  steadily  at 
the  dull  pearls  and  the  flaky  emeralds.  She  could 
not  ask  him  where  he  had  got  those  sovereigns. 
She  could  not  possibly  be  so  cruel.  She  could  not 
dissemble  in  words  like  her  mother.  That  gold  she 
knew  to  be  a  part  of  a  dishonest  bargain  whose  fore- 
step  had  been  a  theft — more,  a  sacrilege.  Her 
honesty  was  like  pure  gold,  unalloyed,  unmixed  , 
with  sophistic  subterfuges.  That  the  young  man 
who  had  purchased  the  rug  might  be  mildly  pec- 
cable had  not  yet  occurred  to  her. 

"Why  not,  Fortune?"  Ryanne  was  very  earnest, 
and  there  was  a  pinch  at  his  heart. 

"Because 


ISO   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Don't  you  like  me,  just  a  little?" 

"Why,  I  do  like  you,  Horace.  But  I  do  not  like 
any  man  well  enough  to  accept  expensive  gifts  from 
him.  I  do  not  wish  to  hurt  you,  but  it  is  impossible. 
The  only  concession  I'll  make  is  to  borrow  the 
money." 

"Well,  then,  let  it  go  at  that."  He  was  too  wise 
to  press  her. 

"And  can  you  afford  to  throw  away  ten  pounds  ?" 
with  assumed  lightness.  "My  one  permanent  im- 
pression of  you  is  the  young  man  who  was  always 
forced  to  borrow  car-fare  whenever  he  returned  from 
Monte  Carlo." 

"A  fool  and  his  money.  But  I'm  a  rich  man  now," 
he  volunteered.  And  briefly  he  sketched  the  exploit 
of  the  Yhiordes  rug. 

"It  was  very  brave  of  you.  But  has  it  ever  oc- 
curred to  you  that  it  wasn't  honest?" 

"Honest?"  frankly  astonished  that  she  should 
question  the  ethics.  "Oh,  I  say,  Fortune;  you  don't 
call  it  dishonest  to  get  the  best  of  a  pagan !  Aren't 
they  always  getting  the  best  of  us?" 

"If  you  had  bargained  with  him  and  beaten  him 


15* 

down,  it  would  have  been  different.  But,  Horace, 
you  stole  it;  you  admit  that  you  did." 

"I  took  my  life  in  my  hands.  I  think  that  evened 
up  things." 

"No.    And  you  sold  it  to  Mr.  Jones?" 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Jones  was  only  too  glad  to  buy  it. 
I  told  him  the  facts.  He  wasn't  particularly  eager 
to  bring  up  the  ethics  of  the  case.  Why,  child, 
what  the  deuce  is  a  Turk?  I  shouldn't  cry  out  if 
some  one  stole  my  Bible." 

"Good  gracious!   do  you  carry  one?" 

"Well,  there's  always  one  on  the  room-stand  in 
the  hotels  I  patronize." 

"I  suppose  it  all  depends  upon  how  we  look  at 
things." 

"That's  it.  A  different  pair  of  spectacles  for  every 
pair  of  eyes." 

If  only  he  weren't  in  love  with  her!  thought  the 
girl.  He  would  then  be  an  amusing  comrade.  But 
whenever  he  met  her  he  quietly  pressed  his  suit. 
He  had  never  spoken  openly  of  love,  for  which  she 
was  grateful,  but  his  attentions,  his  little  kindnesses, 
his  unobtrusive  protection  when  those  other  men 


152   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

were  at  the  villa,  made  the  reading  between  the  lines 
no  difficult  matter. 

"What  shall  you  do  if  this  Mahomed  you  speak 
of  comes?" 

"Turn  him  loose  upon  our  friend  Jones,"  with  a 
laugh. 

"And  what  will  he  do  to  him?" 

"Carry  him  off  to  Bagdad  and  chop  off  his  head," 
Ryanne  jested. 

"Tell  me,  is  there  any  possibility  of  Mr.  Jones 
coming  to  harm?" 

"Can't  say."  Her  concern  for  Percival  annoyed 
him. 

"Is  it  fair,  when  he  paid  you  generously  ?" 

He  did  not  look  into  the  grave  eyes.  They  were 
the  only  pair  that  ever  disconcerted  him.  "My  dear 
Fortune,  it's  a  question  which  is  the  more  valuable 
to  me,  my  skin  or  Percival's." 

"It  isn't  fair." 

"From  my  point  of  view  it's  fair  enough.  I 
warned  him;  I  told  him  the  necessary  facts,  the 
eventual  dangers.  He  accepted  them  all  with  the 
Yhiordes.  I  see  nothing  unfair  jn  the  deal,  since  I 
risked  my  own  life  in  the  first  place." 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  153 

"And  why  must  you  do  these  desperate  things?" 

"Oh,  I  love  excitement.  My  one  idea  in  life  is  to 
avoid  the  humdrum." 

"Is  it  necessary  to  risk  your  life  for  these  excite- 
ments ?  Is  your  life  nothing  more  to  you  than  some- 
thing to  experiment  with?" 

"Truth,  sometimes  I  don't  know,  Fortune.  Some- 
times I  don't  care.  When  one  has  gambled  for  big 
stakes,  it  is  hard  to  play  again  for  penny  points." 

"A  strong,  healthy  man  like  you  ought  not  to 
court  death." 

"I  do  not  seek  it.  My  only  temptation  is  to  see 
how  near  I  can  get  to  the  Man  in  the  Shroud,  as 
some  poet  calls  it,  without  being  touched.  I'll  make 
you  my  confessor.  You  see,  it  is  like  this.  A  num- 
ber of  wearied  men  recently  formed  a  company 
whereby  monotony  became  an  obsolete  word  in  our 
vocabulary.  You  must  not  think  I'm  jesting;  I'm 
serious  enough.  This  company  ferrets  out  adven- 
tures and  romances  and  sells  them  to  men  of  spirit. 
I  became  a  member,  and  the  trip  to  Bagdad  is  the 
result.  One  never  has  to  share  with  the  company. 
The  rewards  are  all  yours.  All  one  has  to  do  is 
to  pay  a  lump  sum  down  for  the  adventure  fur- 


154   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

nished.  You  work  out  the  end  yourself,  unhindered 
and  unassisted." 

"Are  you  really  serious?" 

"Never  more  so.  Now,  Percival  Algernon  has 
always  been  wanting  an  adventure,  but  the  practical 
side  of  him  has  made  him  hold  aloof.  I  told  him 
about  this  concern,  and  he  refuses  to  believe  in  it. 
So  I  am  going  to  undertake  to  prove  it  to  him.  This 
is  confidential.  You  will  say  nothing,  I  know." 

"He  will  come  to  no  harm  physically?" 

"Lord,  no!  It  will  be  mild  and  innocuous.  Of 
course,  if  any  one  told  him  that  an  adventure  was 
toward  for  his  especial  benefit,  it  would  spoil  all. 
I  can  rely  upon  your  silence?" 

She  was  silent.  He  witnessed  her  indecision  with 
distrust.  Perhaps  he  had  said  too  much. 

"Won't  you  promise  ?  Haven't  I  always  been  kind 
to  you,  Fortune,  times  when  you  most  needed 
kindness  ?" 

"I  promise  to  say  nothing.  But  if  any  harm  comes 
to  that  young  man,  either  in  jest  or  in  earnest,  I 
will  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"I  see  that,  after  getting  Percival  Algernon  into 
an  adventure,  I've  got  to  cicerone  him  safely  out 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  155 

of  it.  Well,  I  accept  the  responsibility."  Some 
days  later  he  was  going  to  recall  this  assurance. 

"Sometimes  I  wonder  ..."  pensively. 

"Wonder  about  what?" 

"What  manner  of  man  you  are." 

"I  should  have  been  a  great  deal  better  man  had 
I  met  you  ten  years  ago." 

"What?  When  I  was  eleven?"  with  a  levity  in- 
tended to  steer  him  away  from  this  channel. 

"You  know  what  I  mean/'  he  answered,  moody 
and  dejected. 

She  opened  her  purse  and  dropped  the  pendant 
into  it,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Ten  years  ago,"  abstractedly.  "What  a  lot  of 
things  may  happen  in  ten  years!  Deaths,  births, 
marriages,"  he  went  on;  "the  snuffing  out  of  king- 
doms and  republics;  wars,  panics,  famine;  honor 
to  some  and  dishonor  to  others.  It  kind  of  makes 
a  fellow  grind  his  teeth,  little  girl;  it  kind  of  makes 
him  shut  his  fists  and  long  to  run  amuck." 

"Why  should  a  strong,  intelligent  man,  such  as 
you  are,  think  like  that?  You  are  resourceful  and 
unafraid.  Why  should  you  talk  like  that?  You 
are  young,  too.  Why?" 


156   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

He  stopped  and  looked  full  into  her  eyes.  "Do 
you  really  wish  to  know  ?" 

"Had  I  better?"  with  a  wisdom  beyond  her 
years. 

"No,  you  had  better  not.  I'm  not  a  good  man, 
Fortune,  as  criterions  go.  I've  slipped  here  and 
there;  I've  gambled  and  drunk  and  squandered  my 
time.  Why,  in  my  youth  I  was  as  model  a  boy  as 
ever  was  Percival.  Where  the  divarication  took 
place  I  can't  say.  There's  always  two  forks  in  the 
road,  Fortune,  and  many  of  us  take  the  wrong 
one.  It's  easier  going.  Fine  excuse;  eh?  Some 
persons  would  call  me  a  scoundrel,  a  black-leg;  in 
some  ways,  yes.  But  in  the  days  to  come  I  want 
you  always  to  remember  the  two  untarnished 
spots  upon  my  shield  of  honor:  I  have  never 
cheated  a  man  at  cards  nor  run  away  with  his 
wife.  The  devil  must  give  me  these  merits,  how- 
ever painful  it  may  be  to  him.  Ten  years  ago, 
only  a  decade;  good  Lord!  it's  like  a  hundred 
years  ago,  sometimes." 

Fortune  breathed  with  difficulty.  Never  before 
had  he  taken  her  into  his  confidence  to  such  extent. 
She  essayed  to  speak;  the  old  terror  seemed  fairly 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  157 

to  smother  her.  It  was  not  what  he  had  told  her, 
but  what  she  wished  to  but  dared  not  ask.  She  was 
like  Bluebeard's  wife,  only  she  had  not  the  moral 
courage  to  open  the  door  of  the  grisly  closet.  .  .  . 
Her  mother,  her  uncle;  what  of  them,  ah,  what  of 
them?  The  crooked  street  vanished;  the  roar 
dwindled  away;  she  was  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you,"  he  said 
troubled  at  the  misery  he  saw  gathered  in  her  eyes 
and  vaguely  conscious  of  what  had  written  it  there. 
"Your  mother  and  uncle  have  been  very  kind  to  me. 
They  know  less  of  me  than  you  do.  I  have  been  to 
them  a  kind  of  errand-boy;  a  happy-go-lucky  fel- 
low, who  cheered  them  when  they  had  the  dol- 
drums." With  forced  cheerfulness  he  again tookher 
hand  and  snuggled  it  under  his  arm,  giving  it  a 
friendly,  reassuring  pat.  "I'll  not  speak  to  you  of 
love,  child,  but  a  hair  of  your  head  is  more  precious 
to  me  than  all  Midas'  gold.  Whenever  I've 
thought  of  you,  I've  tried  to  be  good.  Honestly." 

"And  can't  you  go  back  to  the  beginning  and 
start  anew?"  tremulously. 

"Can  any  one  go  back?  The  moving  finger 
writes.  An  hour  is  a  terrible  thing  when  you  look 


158   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

to  see  what  can  happen  in  it.  But,  come ;  sermons ! 
I'd  far  rather  see  you  smile.  Won't  you?" 

She  tried  to,  but  to  him  it  was  sadder  than  her 
tears  would  have  been. 

For  an  hour  they  walked  through  the  dim  and 
musty  streets.  He  exerted  himself  to  amuse  her  and 
fairly  succeeded.  But  never  did  the  unaccountable 
fear,  that  presage  of  misfortune,  sleep  in  her  heart. 
And  at  last,  when  he  took  her  to  her  carriage  and 
bade  her  good-by  till  dinner,  a  half-formed  idea  be- 
gan to  grow  in  her  brain :  to  save  Mr.  Jones  with- 
out betraying  Ryanne. 

The  latter's  carnage  was  at  the  other  end  of  trie 
bazaars;  so  he  strode  sullenly  through  the  press, 
rudely  elbowing  those  who  got  in  his  way.  An  oc- 
casional curse  was  flung  after  him;  but  his  height, 
his  breadth  of  shoulder,  his  lowering  face,  precluded 
anything  more  active.  The  Moslems  had  a  deal  of 
faith  in  the  efficacy  of  curses;  so  the  jostled  ones 
rested  upon  the  promise  of  these,  satisfied  that  di- 
rectly, or  in  the  near  future,  Allah  would  blast  the 
unbelieving  dog  in  his  tracks. 

What  cleverness  the  mother  and  scallawag  of  an 
uncle  had  shown  to  have  kept  the  child  in  ignorance 
all  these  years!  That  she  saw  darkly,  as  through 


THE  BITTER  FRUIT  159 

a  fog,  he  was  perfectly  sure.  Sooner  or  later  the 
storm  would  burst  upon  her  innocent  head,  and  then 
God  alone  knew  what  would  become  of  her.  Oh, 
damn  the  selfish,  sordid  world!  At  that  instant  a 
great  longing  rolled  over  him  to  cut  loose  from  all 
these  evil  webs,  to  begin  anew  somewhere,  even  if 
that  somewhere  were  but  a  wilderness,  a  clearing 
in  a  forest. 

This  moment  flashed  and  was  gone.  Next,  he 
reviewed  with  chagrin  and  irritation  the  folly  of 
his  ultimatum  of  the  preceding  night.  He  had  had 
not  the  slightest  semblance  of  a  plan  in  his  head. 
Sifted  down,  he  saw  only  his  savage  and  senseless 
humor  and  the  desire  to  stir  up  discord.  Gioconda 
was  right.  Fortune  was  above  them  all,  in  feeling, 
in  instinct,  in  loyalty.  What  right  had  he,  roisterer 
by  night  that  he  was,  predaceous  outlaw,  what  right 
had  he  to  look  upon  Fortune  as  his  own?  Harm 
her !  He  would  have  lopped  off  his  right  hand  first. 

Well,  he  had  but  little  time,  and  Percival  Alger- 
non called  for  prompt  action.  The  young  fool  was 
smitten  with  Fortune.  Any  one  could  see  that.  As 
he  shouldered  his  pathway  to  the  carriage,  his  eyes 
seeing  but  not  visualizing  objects,  three  brown  men 
glided  in  between  him  and  the  carriage-step. 


CHAPTER  X 

MAHOMED   LAUGHS 

THE  drawing  back  of  Ryanne's  powerful  arm 
was  produced  by  the  stimulus  of  self-pres- 
ervation; but  almost  instantly  thought  dominated 
impulse,  and  all  indications  of  belligerency  disap- 
peared. The  arm  sank,  relaxed.  It  was  not  possible 
nor  "fblitic  that  Mahomed-El-Gebel  meant  to  take 
reprisal  in  this  congested  quarter.  It  would  have 
gained  him  no  advantage  whatever.  And  Ryanne's 
perception  of  the  exact  situation  enabled  him  to 
smile  with  the  cool  effrontery  of  a  man  inured  to 
sudden  dangers. 

"Well,  well!  So  you  have  found  your  way  to 
Cairo,  Mahomed?" 

"Yes,  effendi,"  returned  Mahomed,  with  a  smile 
thkt  answered  Ryanne's  in  thought  and  expression, 

1 60 


MAHOMED   LAUGHS  161 

the  only  perceivable  difference  being  in  the 
accentuated  whiteness  of  his  fine  teeth.  "Yes,  I 
have  found  you." 

"And  you  have  been  looking  for  me?" 

"Surely." 

Ryanne,  with  an  airy  gesture,  signified  that  he 
wished  to  enter  his  carriage.  Mahomed,  with  a 
movement  equally  light,  implied  his  determination 
to  stand  his  ground. 

"In  a  moment,  effendi,"  he  said  smoothly. 

Mahomed  spoke  English  more  or  less  fluently. 
His  career  of  forty-odd  years  had  been  most  colorful. 
Once  a  young  sheik  of  the  desert,  of  ample  follow- 
ing, a  series  of  tribal  wars  left  him  unattached,  a 
wanderer  without  tent,  village,  or  onion-patch.  He 
had  first  appeared  in  Cairo.  Here  he  had  of  ne- 
cessity picked  up  a  few  words. of  English;  and  from 
a  laborer  in  the  cotton  fields  he  was  eventually  grad- 
uated to  the  envied  position  of  dragoman  or  guide. 
He  tired  of  this,  being  nomadic  by  instinct  and  in- 
clination. He  tried  his  hand  at  rugs  in  Smyrna, 
failed,  and  found  himself  stranded  in  Constanti- 
nople. He  drifted,  became  a  stevedore,  a  hotel 
porter,  burying  his  pride  till  that  moment  when  he 


i6z   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

could,  in  dignity  and  security,  resurrect  it.  Fortune, 
hanging  fire,  relented  upon  his  appointment  as 
cavass  or  messenger  to  the  British  Consulate.  After 
a  time,  he  became  what  he  considered  prosperous; 
and  like  all  fanatic  pagans  of  his  faith,  proposed  to 
reconstruct  his  religious  life  by  a  pilgrimage  to  Holy 
Mecca.  While  there,  he  had  performed  a  consider- 
able service  in  behalf  of  the  future  Pasha  of  Bagdad, 
who  thereafter  gave  him  a  place  in  his  retinue. 

Mahomed  was  not  only  proud  but  wise;  and  a 
series  of  events,  sequences  of  his  own  shrewdness, 
pushed  him  forward  till  he  became  in  deed,  if  not 
in  fact,  the  Pasha's  right-hand  man  in  Bagdad. 
That  quaint  city,  removed  as  it  is  from  the  ordinary 
highways  of  the  Orient,  is  still  to  most  of  us  an 
echo  remote  and  mysterious ;  and  the  present  Pasha 
enjoys  great  privileges,  over  property,  over  life  and 
death ;  and  it  is  not  enlarging  upon  fact  to  say  that 
when  he  deems  it  necessary  to  lop  off  a  head,  he  does 
so,  without  consulting  his  master  in  Constantinople. 
It  is  all  in  the  business  of  a  day.  Next  to  his  cele- 
brated pearls  and  rose-diamonds,  the  Pasha  held 
as  his  most  precious  treasure,  the  Holy  Yhiordes. 
And  for  its  loss  Mahomed  knew  that  his  own  head 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  163 

rested  but  insecurely  upon  his  lean  neck.  That  his 
star  was  still  in  ascendancy  he  believed.  The  Pasha 
would  not  be  in  Bagdad  for  many  weeks.  The  revo- 
lution in  Constantinople,  the  success  of  the  Young 
Turk  party,  made  the  Pasha's  future  incumbency 
a  matter  of  conjecture.  While  he  pulled  those  wires 
familiar  to  the  politician,  Mahomed  set  out  bravely 
to  recover  the  stolen  rug.  He  was  prepared  to  pro- 
ceed to  any  length  to  regain  it,  even  to  the  horrible 
(to  his  Oriental  mind)  necessity  of  buying  it.  He 
retained  his  travel-worn  garments  circumspectly, 
for  none  would  believe  that  his  burnouse  was  well 
lined  with  English  bank-notes. 

"Well  ?"  said  Ryanne,  whirling  his  cane.  He  was 
by  no  means  at  ease.  There  was  going  to  be  trouble 
somewhere  along  the  road. 

"I  have  come  for  the  Yhiordes,  effendi." 
"The  rug?    That's  too  bad.     I  haven't  it." 
"Who  has?"    One  fear  beset  Mahomed's  heart: 
this  dog,  whom  he  called  effendi,  might  have  sold  it, 
since  that  must  have  been  the  ultimate  purpose  of 
the  theft.     And  if  he  had  sold  it  to  one  who  had 
left  Egypt     .     .     .     Mahomed's  neck  grew  cold. 
"Who  has  it,  effendi?    Is  the  man  still  in  Cairo?" 


1 64   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 


"Yes.  If  you  and  your  two  friends  will  come 
with  me  to  the  English-Bar,  I'll  explain  many  things 
to  you,"  assured  Ryanne,  beginning,  as  he  believed, 
to  see  his  way  forward.  "Don't  be  afraid.  Fin 
not  setting  any  trap  for  you.  I'll  tell  you  truthfully 
that  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  so  soon.  If  you'll 
come  along  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  to  straighten  out 
the  matter.  What  do  you  say?" 

Mahomed  eyed  him  with  keen  distrust.  This 
white  man  was  as  strong  in  cunning  as  he  was  in 
flesh.  He  had  had  practical  demonstrations.  Still, 
whatever  road  led  to  the  recovery  of  the  rug  must 
needs  be  traveled.  His  arm,  though  it  still  reposed 
in  a  sling,  was  not  totally  helpless.  It  stood  three 
to  one,  then.  He  spoke  briefly  to  his  companions, 
over  whom  he  seemed  to  have  some  authority. 
These  two  inventoried  the  smooth-faced  Feringhi. 
One  replied.  Mahomed  approved.  Three  to  one, 
and  in  these  streets  many  to,  call  upon,  in  case  of 
open  hostilities.  The  English-Bar  Mahomed  knew 
tolerably  well.  He  had  known  it  in  the  lawless  and 
reveling  eighties.  It  would  certainly  be  neutral 
ground,  since  the  proprietor  was  a  Greek.  With  a 
dignified  sweep  of  his  hand,  he  signed  for  Ryanne 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  165 

to  get  into  the  carriage.  Ryanne  did  so,  relieved. 
He  was  certain  that  he  could  bring  Mahomed  round 
to  a  reasonable  view  of  the  affair.  He  was  even 
willing  to  give  him  a  little  money.  The  three  Arabs 
climbed  in  beside  him,  and  the  journey  to  the  hos- 
telry was  made  without  talk.  Ryanne  pretended  to 
be  vastly  interested  in  the  turmoil  through  which  the 
carriage  rolled,  now  swiftly,  now  hesitant,  now  at 
a  standstill,  and  again  tortuously.  Once  Mahomed 
felt  beneath  his  burnouse  for  his  money;  and  once 
Ryanne,  in  the  pretense  of  seeking  a  cigar,  felt  for 
his.  They  were  rather  upon  even  terms  in  the  ad- 
judication of  each  other's  character. 

The  English-Bar  was  not  the  most  inviting  place. 
Sober,  Ryanne  had  never  darkened  its  doors.  The 
odor  of  garlic  prevailed  over  the  lesser  smells  of 
bad  cooking.  It  was  lighted  only  from  the  street, 
by  two  windows  and  a  door  that  swung  open  all 
the  days  in  the  year.  The  windows  were  generally 
half  obscured  by  bills  announcing  boxing-matches, 
wrestling-bouts  and  the  lithographs  of  cheap  theaters. 
The  walls  were  decorated  in  a  manner  to  please  the 
inherent  Anglo-Saxon  taste  for  strong  men,  fast 
horses,  and  pink-tighted  Venuses.  A  few  iron- 


166   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

topped  tables  littered  both  room  and  sidewalk,  and 
here  were  men  of  a  dozen  nationalities,  sipping 
coffee,  drinking  beer,  or  solemnly  watching  the 
water-bubbles  in  their  sheeshas,  or  pipes. 

A  curious  phase  of  this  class  of  under-world  is 
that  no  one  is  curious.  Strangers  are  never  ques- 
tioned except  when  they  invite  attention,  which  they 
seldom  do.  So,  when  Ryanne  and  his  quasi-com- 
panions  entered,  there  wasn't  the  slightest  agitation. 
A  blowsy  barmaid  stood  behind  the  bar,  polishing 
the  copper  spigots.  Ryanne  threw  her  a  greeting, 
to  which  she  responded  with  a  smirk  that  once  upon 
a  time  had  been  a  smile.  He,  being  master  of  cere- 
monies, selected  a  table  in  the  corner.  The  four 
sat  down,  and  Ryanne  plunged  intrepidly  into  the 
business  under  hand.  To  make  a  tool  of  Mahomed, 
if  not  an  ally,  toward  this  he  directed  his  effort. 
Half  a  dozen  times,  Mahomed  dropped  a  word  in 
Arabic  to  the  other  two,  who  understood  little  or 
no  English. 

"So,  you  see,  Mahomed,  that's  the  way  the  matter 
stands.  I'm  not  so  much  to  blame  as  you  think. 
Here  this  man  Jones  has  me  in  a  vise.  If  I  do  not 
get  this  bit  of  carpet,  off  I  go,  into  the  dark,  into 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  167 

nothing,  beaten.  I  handled  you  roughly,  I  know. 
But  could  I  help  it?  It  was  my  throat  or  yours. 
You're  no  chicken.  You  and  that  other  chap  made 
things  exciting." 

Mahomed  accepted  this  compliment  to  his  prowess 
in  silence.  Indeed,  he  gazed  dreamily  over  Ryanne's 
head.  The  other  fellow  wouldn't  trouble  any  one 
again.  To  Mahomed  it  had  not  been  the  battle, 
man  to  man ;  it  had  been  the  guile  and  trickery  lead- 
ing up  to  it.  He  had  been  bested  at  his  own  game, 
duplicity,  and  that  irked  him.  Death,  he,  as  his  kind, 
looked  upon  with  Oriental  passivity.  Ah,  well! 
The  game  was  to  have  a  second  inning,  and  he  pro- 
posed to  play  it  in  strictly  Oriental  ways. 

"How  much  did  he  give  you  for  it  ?" 

The  expression  upon  Ryanne's  face  would  have 
deceived  any  one  but  Mahomed.  "Give  for  it !"  in- 
dignantly. "Why,  that's  the  whole  trouble.  All 
my  trouble,  all  the  hard  work,  and  not  a  piaster, 
not  a  piaster!  Can't  you  understand,  I  had  to  do 
it?" 

"Is  he  going  to  sell  it?" 

"Sell  it?    Not  he!     He's  a  collector,  and  crazy 

-over  the  thing." 

* 

I 


168   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Mahomed  nodded.  He  knew  something  of  the 
habits  of  collectors.  "Is  he  still  in  Cairo,  and  where 
may  he  be  found?" 

Ryanne  began  to  believe  that  the  game  was  going 
along  famously;  Mahomed  was  sure  of  it. 

"He  is  George  P.  A.  Jones,  of  Mortimer  & 
Jones,  rich  rug  dealers  of  New  York.  Money  no 
object." 

Though  his  face  did  not  show  it,  Mahomed  was 
singularly  depressed  by  this  news.  If  this  man  Jones 
had  money,  of  what  use  was  his  little  packet  of 
notes  ? 

"I  must  have  that  rug,  effendi.  There  are  two 
reasons  why :  it  is  holy,  and  the  loss  of  it  means  my 
head." 

"Good  riddance !"  thought  Ryanne,  a  sympathetic 
look  upon  his  face. 

"What  have  you  to  suggest  in  the  way  of  a  plan  ?" 
asked  Mahomed. 

Ryanne  felt  a  tingle  of  jubilation.  He  saw  noth- 
ing but  plain-sailing  into  port.  But  Mahomed  had 
arranged  to  guide  his  craft  into  the  whirlpool.  Unto 
himself  he  kept  up  a  ceaseless  reiteration  of — 
"Patience,  patience,  patience!" 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  169 

Said  Ryanne :  "You  do  not  care  how  you  get  the 
rug,  so  long  as  you  do  get  it?" 

"No,  effendi."    Mahomed  smiled. 

"A  little  rough  work  wouldn't  disturb  you?" 

"No,  it  would  not." 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  me.  Suppose  you  arrange 
to  take  my  friend  Jones  into  the  desert  for  a  little 
trip.  Be  his  dragoman  for  a  while.  In  fact,  kid- 
nap him,  abduct  him,  steal  him.  You  can  hold  him 
in  ransom  for  the  rug  and  a  nice  little  sum  of  money 
besides." 

"Can  they  do  such  things  these  days  in  Cairo?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Truly,  why  not?"  Mahomed  sat  thoughtfully 
studying  the  outrageous  prints  on  the  cracked  walls. 
Had  he  dared  he  would  have  laughed.  And  he  had 
thought  this  dog  cunning  beyond  all  his  kind!  "I 
agree.  But  the  arrangements  I  must  leave  to  you. 
Bring  him  here  at  nine  o'clock  to-night,"  he  con- 
tinued, leaning  across  the  table  impressively,  "and 
I  will  give  you  one  hundred  pounds  English." 

Ryanne  quickly  assumed  the  expression  needed 
to  meet  such  splendid  news.  "I  say,  Mahomed,  that 
is  pretty  square,  after  what  has  passed  between  us." 


1 70   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"It  is  nothing,"  gallantly. 

If  Ryanne  laughed  in  his  sleeve,  Mahomed  cer- 
tainly found  ample  room  in  his  for  such  silent  and 
figurative  cachinnations.  He  knew  very  well  that 
Ryanne  had  received  a  goodly  sum  for  his  adven- 
ture. No  man  took  his  life  in  his  hand  to  cancel 
an  obligation  which  was  not  based  upon  disinterested 
friendship ;  and  already  the  man  had  disavowed  any 
such  quality.  Also,  he  had  not  been  a  seller  of  rugs 
himself,  or  guardian  of  the  Yhiordes  all  these  years, 
without  having  had  some  contact  with  collectors. 
Why,  if  there  was  one  person  dear  at  this  moment  to 
Mahomed-El-Gebel's  heart,  it  was  this  man  sitting 
opposite.  And  he  wanted  him  far  more  eagerly  than 
the  rug;  only,  the  rug  must  be  regained,  for  its 
loss  was  a  passport  into  paradise;  and  he  wasn't 
quite  prepared  to  be  received  by  the  houris. 

"Mr.  Jones,  then,  shall  be  here  promptly  at  nine," 
declared  Ryanne,  beckoning  the  barmaid.  "What 
will  you  have  ?" 

Mahomed  shook  his  head.  His  two  companions, 
gathering  the  significance  of  the  gesture,  likewise 
declined. 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  171 

"A  smoke,  then?" 

A  smiling  negative. 

"Beware  of  the  Greek  bearing  gifts,"  laughed 
Ryanne.  "All  right.  You  won't  mind  if  I  have  a 
beer  to  the  success  of  the  venture?" 

"No,  effendi." 

Ryanne  drank  the  lukewarm  beverage,  while  Ma- 
homed toyed  with  his  turquoise  ring,  that  sacred 
badge  of  an  honorable  pilgrimage  to  Holy  Mecca. 

"The  young  lady,  effendi;  she  was  very  pretty. 
Your  sister?"  casually  inquired  Mahomed. 

"Oh,  no.  She  is  a  young  lady  I  met  at  the  hotel 
the  other  day." 

The  liar!  thought  the  Moslem,  as  he  recalled  the 
light  in  Ryanne's  eyes  and  the  tenderness  of  his 
smiles.  Apparently,  however,  Mahomed  lost  in- 
terest directly.  "At  nine  o'clock  to-night,  then,  this 
collector  will  arrive  to  become  my  guest?" 

"By  hook  or  crook,"  was  the  answer.  "I'll  have 
him  here.  Cash  upon  delivery,  as  they  say." 

"Cash  upon  delivery,"  Mahomed  repeated,  the 
phrase  being  familiar  to  his  tongue. 

"Frankly,  I  want  this  man  out  of  the  way  for  a 
while." 


172   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Ah!" 

"Yes.  I  want  a  little  revenge  for  the  way  he  has 
treated  me." 

"So  it  is  revenge?"  softly.  Traitorous  to  both 
sides. 

"And  when  I  get  him  here  ?" 

"Leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"Good.  I'm  off,  then.  Take  him  to  Bagdad.  It 
will  be  an  experience  for  him.  But  when  you  get 
him  there,  keep  an  eye  out  for  the  Shah  Abbas  in  the 
Pasha's  work-room." 

The  affair  had  gone  so  smoothly  that  Ryanne's 
usual  keenness  fell  below  the  mark ;  fatuity  was  the 
word.  There  had  been  so  many  twists  to  the  morn- 
ing that  his  abiding  distrust  of  every  one  became, 
for  the  time  being,  edgeless.  The  trick  of  purloin- 
ing the  cable  had  keyed  him  high;  the  subsequent 
meeting  of  Fortune  had  depressed  him.  And  be- 
sides, he  was  too  anxious  to  be  rid  of  Jones  to  con- 
sider the  possibilities  of  Mahomed's  state  of  mind. 

He  got  up,  paid  his  score,  turned  a  jest  for  the 
amusement  of  the  barmaid,  and  went  out  to  his 
carriage.  His  deduction  still  fallow,  he  rode  away. 
Lord !  how  easy  it  had  been.  Not  a  hitch  anywhere. 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  173 

And  here,  for  days,  he  had  imagined  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  his  dreams,  a  jumble  of  dungeons,  of 
tortures.     He  understood.     The  old  rascal's  own 
head  hung  in  the  balance.    That's  what  saved  him. 
To  Mahomed  the  rug  was  the  paramount  feature; 
revenge  (and  he  knew  that  Mahomed  was  longing 
madly,  fiercely  for  it)  must  wait.     And  when  Ma- 
homed turned  his  attention  to  this  phase,  why,  he, 
Ryanne,  would  be  at  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
It  was  very  hard  not  to  drop  off  at  Shepheard's  and 
confide  the  whole  droll  conspiracy  to  a  bottle  with  a 
green  and  gilded  neck.     But,  no;  he  had  had  no 
sleep  the  night  before ;  wine  and  want  of  rest  would 
leave  him  witless  when  the  time  came  to  see  that 
Percival  was  safely  stowed  away.     A  fine  joke,  a 
monstrous  fine  joke!     By-by,  Percival,  old  chap; 
pleasant  journey.    The  United  Romance  and  Adven- 
ture Company  gives  you  this  little  romance  upon 
approval.      If  you  do  not  like  it,  return  it   ...    if 
you  can ! 

Mahomed  sat  perfectly  still  in  his  chair.  His  two 
companions  watched  him  carefully.  The  mask  had 
fallen,  and  their  master's  face  was  not  pleasant  to 
see.  Suddenly  he  laughed.  The  barmaid  stopped 


174   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

at  her  work.  She  had  somewhere  heard  laughter 
like  that.  It  gave  her  a  shiver.  Where  had  she 
heard  it?  Yes,  that  was  it.  A  man  who  had  played 
the  devil  in  an  opera  called  Fawst  or  something 
like  that.  Would  she  ever  see  dear  old  foggy  Lon- 
don again?  With  a  vain  sigh  she  went  on  rinsing 
the  glasses  and  coffee-cups. 

When  George  rolled  out  of  bed  it  was  eleven. 
He  bathed  and  dressed,  absolutely  content,  regret- 
less  of  the  morning  hours  he  had  wasted.  Truth  to 
tell,  he  hadn't  enjoyed  sleep  so  thoroughly  in  weeks. 
He  set  to  work,  ridding  the  room  of  its  clutter  of 
books  and  clothes  and  what-nots.  Might  as  well  get 
the  bulk  of  his  packing  out  of  the  way  while  he 
thought  of  it. 

Wrhy  had  he  been  in  such  a  dreadful  hurry  to 
pull  out?  Cairo  was  just  now  the  most  delightful 
place  he  knew  of.  To  leave  behind  the  blue  skies 
and  warm  sunshine,  and  to  face  instead  the  biting 
winds  and  northern  snows,  rather  dispirited  him. 
He  paused,  a  pair  of  trousers  dangling  from  his 
hand.  Pshaw!  Why  not  admit  it  frankly  and 
honestly?  Wherever  Fortune  Chedsoye  was  or 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  175 

might  be,  there  was  the  delectable  country.  He 
hadn't  thought  to  ask  her  when  she  was  to  leave, 
nor  whither  she  was  to  go.  The  abruptness  with 
which  she  had  left  him  the  night  before  puzzled 
rather  than  disturbed  him.  Oh,  well ;  this  old  planet 
was  neither  so  deep  nor  so  round  as  it  had  once  been. 
What  with  steamships  and  railroads,  the  so-called 
four  ends  were  drawn  closely  together.  He  would 
ask  her  casually,  as  if  it  did  not  particularly  matter. 
In  Naples  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  change  his 
booking  to  New  York.  From  Naples  to  Mentone 
was  only  a  question  of  a  few  hours. 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,  George,  old  boy,  does 
it?  But  it's  true;  and  there's  no  use  trying  to  fool 
yourself  that  it  isn't.  Fortune  Chedsoye;  it  will  be 
a  shame  to  add  Jones  to  it;  but  I'm  going  to  try." 

He  pressed  down  the  last  book,  the  last  collar, 
the  last  pair  of  shoes,  and  sat  upon  the  lid  of  the 
trunk.  He  growled  a  little.  The  lock  was  always 
bothering  him.  It  was  wonderful  how  many  things 
a  chap  could  take  out  of  a  trunk  and  how  plagued 
few  he  could  put  back.  It  did  not  seem  to  relieve 
the  pressure  if  he  added  a  steamer-trunk  here  or  a 
suit-case  there ;  there  was  always  just  so  much  there 


176   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

wasn't  any  room  for.  Truly,  it  needed  a  woman's 
hand  to  pack  a  trunk.  However  his  mother  in  the 
old  school-days  had  got  all  his  belongings  into 
one  trunk  was  still  an  unsolved  mystery. 

Stubborn  as  the  lock  was,  perseverance  overcame 
it.  George  then,  as  a  slight  diversion,  spread  the 
ancient  Yhiordes  over  the  trunk  and  stared  at  it  in 
pleasurable  contemplation.  What  a  beauty  it  was! 
What  exquisite  blue,  what  soft  reds,  what  minute 
patterns!  And  this  treasure  was  his.  He  leaned 
down  upon  it  with  his  two  hands.  A  color  stole 
into  his  cheeks.  It  had  its  source  in  an  old  con- 
fusion: school-boys  jeering  a  mate  seen  walking 
home  from  school  with  a  girl.  It  was  all  rot,  he 
perfectly  knew,  this  wishing  business;  and  yet  he 
flung  into  the  sun-warmed,  sun-gilded  space  an 
ardent  wish,  sent  it  speeding  round  the  world  from 
east  to  west.  Fast  as  heat,  fast  as  light  it  traveled, 
for  no  sooner  had  it  sprung  from  his  mind  than  it 
entered  the  window  of  a  room  across  the  corridor. 
Whether  the  window  was  open  or  shut  was  of  no 
importance  whatever.  Such  wishes  penetrated  and 
went  through  all  obstacles.  And  this  one  touched 
Fortune's  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips ;  it  caressed  her  in 


MAHOMED  LAUGHS  177 

a  thousand  happy  ways.  But,  alas!  such  wishes 
are  without  temporal  power. 

Fortune  never  knew.  She  sat  in  a  chair,  her 
ringers  locked  tensely,  her  eyes  large  and  set  in 
gaze,  her  lips  compressed,  her  whole  attitude  one 
of  impotent  despair. 

George  did  not  see  her  at  lunch,  and  consequently 
did  not  enjoy  the  hour.  Was  she  ill?  Had  she 
gone  away?  Would  she  return  before  he  started? 
He  greeted  the  Major  as  one  greets  a  long-lost 
friend;  and  by  gradations  George  considered  clever 
indeed,  brought  the  conversation  down  to  Fortune. 
No,  the  Major  did  not  know  where  she  was.  She 
had  gone  early  to  the  bazaars.  Doubtless  she  was 
lunching  alone  somewhere.  She  had  the  trick  of 
losing  herself  at  times.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  visit- 
ing friends  at  Shepheard's.  When  did  Mr.  Jones 
leave  for  America?  What!  on  the  morrow?  The 
Major  shook  his  head  regretfully.  There  was  no 
place  like  Cairo  for  Christmas. 

George  called  a  carriage,  drove  about  the  princi- 
pal streets  and  shopping  districts,  and  used  his  eyes 
diligently;  but  it  was  love's  labor  lost.  Not  even 
when  he  returned  at  tea-time  did  he  see  her.  Why 


178   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

hadn't  he  known  and  got  up?  He  could  have 
shown  her  the  bazaars;  and  there  wasn't  a  drago- 
man in  Cairo  more  familiar  with  them  than  he.  A 
wasted  day,  totally  wasted.  He  hung  about  the 
lounging-room  till  it  was  time  to  go  up  and  dress 
for  dinner.  To-night  (as  if  the  gods  had  turned 
George's  future  affairs  over  to  the  care  of  Momus) 
he  dressed  as  if  he  were  going  to  the  opera :  swal- 
low-tail, white  vest,  high  collar  and  white-lawn 
cravat,  opera-Fedora,  and  thin-soled  pumps;  all 
those  habiliments  and  demi-habiliments  supposed 
to  make  the  man.  When  he  reached  what  he 
thought  to  be  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mold  of 
form,  he  turned  for  the  first  time  toward  his  trunk. 
He  did  not  rub  his  eyes;  it  wasn't  at  all  necessary; 
ne  thing  he  saw,  or  rather  did  not  see,  was  estab- 
lished beyond  a  doubt,  as  plainly  definite  as  two  and 
two  are  four.  The  ancient  Yhiordes  had  taken  upon 
itself  one  of  the  potentialities  of  its  fabulous  proto- 
type, that  of  invisibility :  it  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EPISODIC 

had  immediately  returned  from  the 
bazaars.  And  a  kind  of  torpor  blanketed  her 
mind,  usually  so  fertile  and  active.  For  a  time  the 
process  of  the  evolution  of  thought  was  denied  her; 
she  tried  to  think,  but  there  was  an  appalling  lack 
of  continuity,  of  broken  threads.  It  was  like  one 
of  those  circumferential  railways:  she  traveled,  but 
did  not  get  anywhere.  Ryanne  had  told  her  too 
much  for  his  own  sake,  but  too  little  for  hers.  She 
sat  back  in  the  carriage,  inert  and  listless,  and  in- 
determinedly  likened  her  condition  to  driftwood  in 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  beach-waves.  The  color  and 
commotion  of  the  streets  were  no  longer  absorbed; 
it  was  as  if  she  were  riding  through  emptiness, 
through  the  unreality  of  a  dream.  She  was  op- 
pressed and  stifled,  too;  harbinger  of  storms. 

179 


i8o   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Mechanically  she  dismissed  the  carriage  at  the 
hotel,  mechanically  she  went  to  her  room,  and  in 
this  semiconscious  mood  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and 
there  George's  wish  found  her,  futilely.  Oh,  there 
was  one  thing  clear,  clear  as  the  sky  outside.  All 
was  not  right;  something  was  wrong;  and  this 
wrong  upon  one  side  concerned  her  mother,  her  uncle 
and  Ryanne,  and  upon  the  other  side,  Mr.  Jones. 
Think  and  think  as  she  might,  her  endeavors  gave 
her  no  single  illumination.  Four  blind  walls  sur- 
rounded her.  The  United  Romance  and  Adventure 
Company — there  could  not  possibly  be  such  a  thing 
in  existence;  it  was  a  jest  of  Ryanne's  to  cover  up 
something  far  more  serious. 

She  pressed  her  eyes  wi^h  a  hand.  They  ached 
dully,  the  dull  pain  of  bewilderment,  which  these 
days  recurred  with  frequency*  A  sense  of  time  was 
lacking;  for  luncheon  hour  came  and  passed  without 
her  being  definitely  aware  of  it.  This  in  itself  was 
a  puzzle.  A  jaunt,  such  as  she  had  taken  that 
morning,  always  keened  the  edge  of  her  appetite; 
and  yet,  there  was  no  craving  whatever. 

Where  was  her  mother  ?  If  she  would  only  come 
now,  the  cumulative  doubts  of  all  these  months 


EPISODIC  181 

should  be  put  into  speech.  They  had  treated  her 
as  one  would  treat  a  child;  it  was  neither  just  nor 
reasonable.  If  not  as  a  child,  but  as  one  they  dared 
not  trust,  then  they  were  afraid  of  her.  But  why? 
She  pressed  her  hands  together,  impotently. 
Ryanne,  clever  as  he  was,  had  made  a  slip  or  two 
which  he  had  sought  to  cover  up  with  a  jest.  Why 
should  he  confess  himself  to  be  a  rogue  unless  his 
tongue  had  got  the  better  of  his  discretion?  If 
he  was  a  rogue,  why  should  her  mother  and  her 
uncle  make  use  of  him,  if  not  for  roguery's  sake? 
They  were  fools,  fools!  If  they  had  but  seen  and 
understood  her  as  she  was,  she  would  have  gone  to 
the  bitter  end  with  them,  loyally,  with  sealed  lips. 
But  no ;  they  had  chosen  not  to  see ;  and  in  this  had 
morally  betrayed  her.  Ah,  it  rankled,  and  the  in- 
justice of  it  grew  from  pain  to  fury.  At  that  mo- 
ment, had  she  known  anything,  she  certainly  would 
have  denounced  them.  Of  what  use  was  loyalty, 
since  none  of  them  sought  it  in  her? 

The  Major  was  wiser  than  he  knew  when  he 
spoke  of  the  hundredth  danger,  the  danger  unfore- 
seen, the  danger  against  which  they  could  make  no 
preparation.  And  he  would  have  been  first  to  sense 


182   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

the  irony  of  it  could  he  have  seen  where  this  danger 
lay. 

Why  should  they  wish  the  pleasant  young  man 
out  of  the  way?  Why  should  Ryanne  wish  to  in- 
veigle him  into  the  hands  of  this  man  Mahomed? 
Was  it  merely  self-preservation,  or  something 
deeper,  more  sinister?  Think!  Why  couldn't  she 
think  of  something?  It  was  only  a  little  pleasure 
trip  to  Cairo,  they  had  told  her,  and  when  she  had 
asked  to  go  along,  they  seemed  willing  enough. 
But  they  had  come  to  this  hotel,  when  formerly  they 
had  always  put  up  at  Shepheard's.  And  here  again 
the  question,  why?  Was  it  because  Mr.  Jones  was 
staying  here?  She  liked  him,  what  little  she  had 
seen  of  him.  He  was  out  of  an  altogether  different 
world  than  that  to  which  she  was  accustomed.  He 
was  neither  insanely  mad  over  cards  nor  a  social 
idler.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  real  interest  in 
life,  a  worker,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  reputed 
to  be  independently  rich.  And  her  mother  had  once 
borrowed  money  of  him,  never  intending  to  pay  it 
back.  The  shame  of  it!  And  why  should  she  ap- 
proach him  the  very  first  day  and  recall  the  in- 
cident, if  not  with  the  ulterior  purpose  of  using  him 


EPISODIC  183 

further?  As  a  ball  strikes  a  wall  only  to  rebound 
to  the  thrower,  so  it  was  with  all  these  ques- 
tions. There  was  never  any  answer. 

Tired  out,  mentally  and  physically,  she  laid  her 
head  upon  the  cool  top  of  the  stand.  And  in  this 
position  her  mother,  who  had  returned  to  dress  for 
tea,  found  her.  Believing  Fortune  to  be  asleep,  Mrs. 
Chedsoye  dropped  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

Fortune  raised  her  head. 

"Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  the  mother 
asked.  The  face  she  saw  was  not  tear-stained;  it 
was  as  cold  and  passionless  as  that  by  which  sculp- 
tors represent  their  interpretations  of  Justice. 

"Matter?"  Fortune  spoke,  in  a  tone  that  did  not 
reassure  the  other.  "In  the  first  place  I  have  only 
one  real  question  to  ask.  It  depends  upon  how  you 
answer  it.  Am  I  really  your  daughter?" 

"Really  my  daughter?"  Mrs.  Chedsoye  stepped 
back,  genuinely  astonished.  "Really  my  daughter? 
The  child  is  mad!"  as  if  addressing  an  imaginary 
third  person.  "What  makes  you  ask  such  a  silly 
question  ?"  She  was  in  a  hurry  to  change  her  dress, 
but  the  new  attitude  of  this  child  of  hers  warranted 
some  patience. 


184   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"That  is  no  answer,"  said  Fortune,  with  the  un- 
moved deliberation  of  a  prosecuting  attorney. 

"Certainly  you  are  my  daughter." 

"Good.  If  you  had  denied  it,  I  should  have  held 
my  peace;  but  since  you  admit  that  I  am  of  your 
flesh  and  blood,  I  am  going  to  force  you  to  recog- 
nize that  in  such  a  capacity  I  have  some  rights.  I 
did  not  ask  to  come  into  this  world;  but  insomuch 
as  I  am  here,  I  propose  to  become  an  individual, 
not  a  thing  to  be  given  bread  and  butter  upon  suf- 
ferance. I  have  been  talking  with  Horace.  I  met 
him  in  the  bazaars  this  morning.  He  said  some 
things  which  you  must  answer." 

"Horace?  And  what  has  he  said,  pray  tell?" 
Her  expression  was  flippant,  but  a  certain  inquietude 
penetrated  her  heart  and  accelerated  its  beating. 
What  had  the  love-lorn  fool  said  to  the  child  ? 

"He  said  that  he  was  not  a  good  man,  and  that 
you  tolerated  him  because  he  ran  errands  for  you. 
What  kind  of  errands?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  take  the  child  by  the  shoulders  and  shake  her 
soundly.  "He  was  laughing  when  he  said  that. 
Errands  ?  One  would  scarcely  call  it  that." 

4 


EPISODIC  185 

"Why  did  you  renew  the  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Jones,  when  you  knew  that  you  never  intended  pay- 
ing Hack  that  loan?" 

Here  was  a  question,  Mrs.  Chedsoye  realized, 
from  the  look  of  the  child,  that  would  not  bear 
evasion. 

"What  makes  you  think  I  never  intended  to  repay 
him?" 

Fortune  laughed.  It  did  not  sound  grateful  in  the 
mother's  ears. 

"Mother,  this  is  a  crisis;  it  can  not  be  met  by 
counter-questions  nor  by  flippancy.  You  know  that 
you  did  not  intend  to  pay  him.  What  I  demand  to 
know  is,  why  you  spoke  to  him  again,  so  affably, 
why  you  seemed  so  eager  to  enter  into  his  good 
graces  once  more.  Answer  that." 

Her  mother  pondered.  For  once  she  was  really 
at  a  loss.  The  unexpectedness  of  this  phase  caught 
her  off  her  balance.  She  saw  one  thing  vividly, 
regretfully :  she  had  missed  a  valuable  point  in  the 
game  by  not  adjusting  her  play  to  the  growth  of 
the  child,  who  had,  with  that  phenomenal  sudden- 
ness which  still  baffles  the  psychologists,  stepped 
out  of  girlhood  into  womanhood,  all  in  a  day. 


i86   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

What  a  fool  she  had  been  not  to  have  left  the  child 
at  Mentone! 

"I  am  waiting,"  said  Fortune.  "There  are  more 
questions;  but  I  want  this  on«  answered  first." 

"This  is  pure  insolence!" 

"Insolence  of  a  kind,  yes." 

"And  I  refuse  to  answer.  I  have  some  authority 
still." 

"Not  so  much,  mother,  as  you  had  yesterday. 
You  refuse  to  explain?" 

"Absolutely!" 

"Then  I  shall  judge  you  without  mercy." 
Fortune  rose,  her  eyes  blazing  passionately.  She 
caught  her  mother  by  the  wrist,  and  she  was  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  "Can't  you  understand?  I 
am  no  longer  a  child,  I  am  a  woman.  I  do  not  ask, 
I  demand !"  She  drew  the  older  woman  toward  her, 
eye  to  eye.  "You  palter,  you  always  palter;  palter 
and  evade.  You  do  not  know  what  frankness  and 
truth  are.  Is  this  continual  evasion  calculated  to 
still  my  distrust?  Yes,  I  distrust  you,  you,  my 
mother.  You  have  made  the  mistake  of  leaving  me 
alone  too  much.  I  have  always  distrusted  you,  but 
I  never  knew  why." 


EPISODIC  187 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  tugged,  but  ineffectually.  "Let 
gol" 

"Not  till  I  have  done.  Out  of  the  patchwork, 
squares  have  been  formed.  What  of  the  men  who 
used  to  come  to  the  villa  and  play  cards  with  Uncle 
George,  the  men  who  went  away  and  never  same 
back?  What  of  your  long  disappearances  of  which 
I  knew  nothing  except  that  one  day  you  vanished 
and  upon  another  you  came  back?  Did  you  think 
that  I  was  a  fool,  that  I  had  no  time  to  wonder 
over  these  things?  You  have  never  tried  to  make 
a  friend  of  me ;  you  have  always  done  your  best  to 
antagonize  me.  Did  you  hate  my  father  so  much 
that,  when  his  death  put  him  out  of  range,  you  had 
to  concentrate  it  upon  me?  My  father!"  Fortune 
roughly  flung  aside  the  arm.  "Who  knows  about 
him,  who  he  was,  what  he  was,  what  he  looked  like? 
As  a  child,  I  used  to  ask  you,  but  never  would  you 
speak.  All  I  know  about  him  nurse  told  me.  This 
much  has  always  burned  in  my  mind :  you  married 
him  for  wealth  that  he  did  not  have.  What  do  you 
mean  by  this  simple  young  man  across  the  corri- 
dor?" 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  pale,  and  the  artistic  touch 


1 88   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

of  rouge  upon  her  cheeks  did  not  disguise  the  pal- 
lor. The  true  evidence  lay  in  the  whiteness  of  her 
nose.  Never  in  her  varied  life  had  she  felt  more 
helpless,  more  impotent.  To  be  wild  with  rage,  and 
yet  to  be  powerless !  That  alertness  of  mind,  that 
mental  buoyancy,  which  had  always  given  her  the 
power  to  return  a  volley  in  kind,  had  deserted  her. 
Moreover,  she  was  distinctly  alarmed.  This  little 
fool,  with  a  turn  of  her  hand,  might  send  tottering 
into  ruins  the  skilful  planning  of  months. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  him?"  aiming  to  gain  time 
to  regather  her  scattered  thoughts. 

"Love?"  bitterly.  "I  am  in  a  fine  mood  to  love 
any  one.  My  question,  my  question,"  vehemently; 
"my  question!" 

"I  refuse  absolutely  to  answer  you !"  Anger  was 
first  to  reorganize  its  forces;  and  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
felt  the  heat  of  it  run  through  her  veins.  But, 
oddly  enough,  it  was  anger  directed  less  toward 
the  child  than  toward  her  own  palpable  folly  and 
oversight. 

"Then  I  shall  leave  you.  I  will  go  out  into  the 
world  and  earn  my  own  bread  and  butter.  Ah,"  a 
little  brokenly,  "if  you  had  but  given  me  a  little 


EPISODIC  189 

kindness,  you  do  not  know  how  loyal  I  should  have 
been  to  you!  But  no;  I  am  and  always  have  been 
the  child  that  wasn't  wanted." 

The  despair  in  the  gesture  that  followed  these 
words  stirred  the  mother's  calloused  heart,  moved 
it  strangely,  mysteriously.  "My  child!"  she  said 
impulsively,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"No."  Fortune  drew  back.  "It  is  too  late." 
"Have  it  so.  But  you  speak  of  going  out  into 
the  world  to  earn  your  bread  and  butter.  What 
do  you  know  about  the  world?  What  could  you 
do?  You  have  never  done  anything  but  read  ro- 
mantic novels  and  moon  about  in  the  flower-gar- 
den. Foolish  chit!  Harm  Mr.  Jones?  Why? 
For  what  purpose?  I  have  no  more  interest  in  him 
than  if  he  were  one  of  those  mummies  over  in  the 
museum.  And  I  certainly  meant  to  repay  him.  I 
should  have  done  so  if  you  hadn't  taken  the  task 
upon  your  own  broad  shoulders.  I  am  in  a  hurry. 
I  am  going  out  to  Mena  House  to  tea.  I've  let 
Celeste  off  for  the  day;  so  please  unhook  my  waist 
and  do  not  bother  your  head  about  Mr.  Jones." 
She  turned  her  back  upon  her  daughter,  quite  con- 
fident that  she  had  for  the  time  suppressed  the  in- 


190   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

cipient  rebellion.  She  heard  Fortune  crossing  the 
room.'  "What  are  you  doing?"  petulantly. 

"I  am  ringing  for  the  hall-maid."  And  Fortune 
resumed  her  chair,  picked  up  her  Baedeker,  and  be- 
came apparently  absorbed  over  the  map  of  AssuaiL 

Again  wrath  mounted  to  the  mother's  head.  She 
could  combat  anger,  tears,  protestations;  but  this 
indifference,  studied  and  unfilial,  left  her  weapon- 
less; and  she  was  too  wise  to  unbridle  her  tongue, 
much  as  she  longed  to  do  so.  She  was  beaten.  Not 
an  agreeable  sensation  to  one  who  counted  only  her 
victories. 

"Fortune,  later  you  will  be  sorry  for  this  spirit," 
she  said,  when  she  felt  the  tremor  of  wrath  no 
longer  in  her  throat. 

Fortune  turned  a  page,  and  jotted  down  some 
notes  with  a  pencil.  Sad  as  she  was  at  heart,  tragic 
as  she  knew  the  result  of  this  outbreak  to  be,  she 
could  hardly  repress  a  smile  at  the  thought  of  her 
mother's  discomfiture. 

And  so  the  chasm  widened,  and  went  on  widening 
till  the  end  of  time. 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  glad  that  the  hall-maid 
knocked  and  came  in  just  then.  It  at  least  saved 


EPISODIC  191 

her  the  ignominy  of  a  retreat.  She  dressed,  how- 
ever, with  the  same  deliberate  care  that  she  had  al- 
ways used.  Nothing  ever  deranged  her  sense  of 
proportion  relative  to  her  toilet,  nothing  ever  made 
her  forget  its  importance. 

"Good-by,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be  in  at 
dinner."  If  the  maid  had  any  suspicion  that  there 
had  been  a  quarrel,  she  should  at  least  be  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  she,  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  was  not  to 
blame  for  it. 

Fortune  nibbled  the  end  of  her  pencil. 

The  door  closed  behind  her  mother  and  the  maid. 
She  waited  for  a  time.  Then  she  sprang  to  the 
window  and  stood  there.  She  saw  her  mother 
driven  off.  She  was  dressed  in  pearl-grey,  with 
a  Reynolds'  hat  of  grey  velour  and  sweeping 
plumes :  as  handsome  and  distinguished  a  woman  as 
could  be  found  that  day  in  all  Cairo.  The  watcher 
threw  her  Baedeker,  her  note-book,  and  her  pencil 
violently  into  a  corner.  It  had  come  to  her  at  last, 
this  thing  she  had  been  striving  for  since  noon.  She 
did  not  care  what  the  risks  were;  the  storm  was  toe 
high  in  her  heart  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  caution. 
She  would  do  it;  for  she  judged  it  the  one  thing, 


192   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

in  justice  to  her  own  blood,  she  must  accomplish. 
She  straightway  dressed  for  the  street;  and  if  she 
did  not  give  the  same  care  as  her  mother  to  the 
vital  function,  she  produced  an  effect  that  merited 
comparison. 

She  loitered  before  the  porter's  bureau  till  she 
saw  him  busily  engaged  in  answering  questions  of 
some  women  tourists.  Then,  with  a  slight  but 
friendly  nod,  she  stepped  into  the  bureau  and  stopped 
before  the  key-rack.  She  hung  up  her  key,  but 
took  it  down  again,  as  if  she  had  changed  her  mind. 
At  least,  this  was  the  porter's  impression  as  he 
bowed  to  her  in  the  midst  of  the  verbal  bombard- 
ment. Fortune  went  up-stairs.  Ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  elapsed,  when  she  returned,  hung  up  the 
key,  and  walked  briskly  toward  the  side-entrance 
at  the  very  moment  George,  in  his  fruitless  search 
of  her,  pushed  through  the  revolving  doors  in  front. 
And  all  the  time  she  was  wondering  how  it  was 
that  her  knees  did  not  give  under.  It  was  terrible. 
She  balanced  between  laughter  and  tears,  hysteri- 
cally. 

She  had  gone  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  when  she 
was  accosted  by  a  tall  Arab  whom  she  indistinctly 


EPISODIC  193 

recollected  having  seen  before;  where,  she  could 
not  definitely  imagine.  It  was  the  ragged  green 
turban  that  cleared  away  her  puzzlement.  The 
Arab  was  the  supposed  beggar  over  whom  Percival 
(how  easily  she  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  calling 
him  that!)  had  stumbled.  He  stood  so  tall  and 
straight  that  she  knew  he  wasn't  going  to  beg;  so 
naturally  she  stopped.  Without  a  word,  without 
even  a  look  that  expressed  anything,  he  slipped  a 
note  into  her  hand,  bowed  with  Oriental  gravity, 
and  stepped  aside  for  her  to  proceed.  She  read  the 
note  hastily  as  she  continued  her  way.  Horace? 
Why  should  he  wish  to  meet  her  that  evening,  at 
the  southeast  corner  of  the  Shari'a  Mahomoud-El- 
Falaki,  a  step  or  so  from  the  British  Consulate's? 
And  she  mustn't  come  in  a  carriage  nor  tell  any  one 
where  she  was  going?  Why  all  such  childish  mys- 
tery? He  could  see  her  far  more  conveniently  in 
the  lounging-room  of  the  hotel.  She  tore  the  note 
into  scraps  and  flung  them  upon  the  air.  She  was 
afraid.  She  was  almost  certain  why  he  wished  to 
meet  her  where  neither  her  mother's  nor  her  uncle's 
eyes  would  be  within  range.  Should  she  meet  him? 
Deeper  than  this,  dared  she?  Why  had  she  come 


194   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

to  Cairo,  when  at  Mentone  she  had  known  peace, 
such  peace  as  destiny  was  generous  enough  to  dole 
out  to  her?  And  now,  out  of  this  tolerable  peace, 
a  thousand  hands  were  reaching  to  rend  her  heart, 
to  wring  it.  She  decided  quickly.  Since  she  had 
come  this  far,  to  go  on  to  the  end  would  add  but 
little  to  her  burden.  Better  to  know  all  too  soon 
than  too  late. 

That  the  note  had  not  been  directed  to  her  and 
that  she  was  totally  unfamiliar  with  Ryanne's  hand- 
writing, escaped  her.  She  had  too  many  other 
things  upon  her  mind  to  see  all  things  clearly, 
especially  such  trifles.  She  finished  her  walk,  re- 
turning by  the  way  she  had  gone,  gave  the  key  to 
the  lift-boy,  and  in  her  room  dropped  down  upon 
the  bed,  dry-eyed  and  weary.  The  most  eventful 
day  she  had  ever  known. 

And  all  the  while  George  sat  by  the  window  and 
watched,  and  at  length  fell  into  a  frame  of  mind 
that  was  irritable,  irascible  and  self-condemnatory. 
And  when  he  found  that  his  precious  Yhiordes  was 
gone,  his  condition  was  the  essence  of  all  disagree- 
able emotions.  It  was  beyond  him  how  any  one 
could  have  stolen  it.  He  never  failed  to  lock  his 


EPISODIC  195 

door  and  leave  the  key  with  the  porter.  And  surely, 
only  a  man  with  wings  could  have  gained  entrance 
by  the  window.  Being  a  thorough  business  man 
among  other  accomplishments,  he  reported  his  loss 
at  once  to  the  management;  and  the  management 
set  about  the  matter  with  celerity.  At  half  after 
seven  every  maid  and  servant  in  the  hotel  had  been 
questioned  and  examined,  without  the  least  notice- 
able result.  The  rug  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

George  felt  the  loss  keenly.     He  was  not  so  rich 

9 
that  he  could  afford  to  lose  both  the  rug  and  the 

thousand  pounds  he  had  paid  for  it.  His  first 
thought  had  been  of  Ryanne ;  but  it  was  proved  that 
Ryanne  had  not  been  in  the  hotel  since  morning; 
at  least,  no  one  had  seen  him. 

George  gloomed  about.  A  beastly  day,  all  told; 
everything  had  gone  wrong,  and  all  because  he  had 
overslept.  At  dinner  something  was  wrong  with 
the  soup;  the  fish  was  greasy;  the  roast  was  dry 
and  stringy;  the  wine,  full  of  pieces  of  cork.  Out 
into  the  lounging-room  again;  and  then  the  porter 
hurried  over  to  him  with  a  note  from  Ryanne.  It 
stated  briefly  that  it  was  vitally  important  for  Mr. 
Jones  to  meet  him  at  nine  o'clock  at  the  English- 


196   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Bar  in  the  Quarter  Rosetti.  Any  driver  would 
show  him  the  way.  Mahomed-El-Gebel,  the 
guardian  of  the  Holy  Yhiordes,  had  turned  up, 
and  the  band  was  beginning  to  play.  Would  Mr. 
Jones  like  a  little  fun  by  the  wayside  ? 

"I'm  his  man,"  said  George.  "But  how  the 
devil  did  this  Mahomed  ever  get  into  my  room  ?" 

Had  Fortune  dined  down-stairs  instead  of  alone 
in  her  room,  events  might  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently. Ryanne  had  really  written  to  George,  but 
not  to  Fortune. 

Mahomed,  fatalist  that  he  was,  had  thrown  every- 
thing upon  the  whirling  scales  of  chance,  and  waited. 
Later,  he  may  have  congratulated  himself  upon  his 
good  luck.  But  it  wasn't  luck;  it  was  the  will  of 
Allah  that  he,  Mahomed,  should  contribute  his 
slender  share  in  working  out  the  destinies  of  two 
young  people. 

George  was  in  the  proper  mood  for  an  adven- 
ture. He  went  so  far  as  to  admit  to  himself  that 
he  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  a  fisticuff. 
The  one  mistake  he  made  in  his  calculations  was 
dress.  Men  didn't  generally  go  a-venturing  in  such 
finical  attire.  They  wore  bowlers  and  sack-coats 


EPISODIC  197 

and  carried  heavy  walking-sticks.  The  only  wea- 
pons George  had  were  his  two  hands,  now  adorned 
with  snug-fitting  opera-gloves. 

He  saw  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  spoke  to  her,  inquired 
about  Fortune,  and  was  informed  that  she  had 
dined  in  her  room.  A  case  of  doldrums,  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye believed. 

"I'm  in  a  peck  of  trouble,"  said  George,  craving 
a  little  sympathy. 

"In  what  way?" 

"That  rug  I  told  you  about  is  gone." 

"What?    Stolen?" 

"Yes.     Vanished  into  thin  air." 

"That's  too  bad.  Of  course,  the  police  will  event- 
ually find  it  for  you." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  exactly  the  trouble.  I 
really  daren't  put  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the 
police." 

"Oh,  I  see."  Mrs.  Chedsoye  looked  profoundly 
sorry. 

"And  here  I  am,  due  for  Port  Said  to-morrow." 

"That's  the  kind  that  bowls  you  over,"  said  the 
Major.  "If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  after  you 
are  gone  .  .  ." 


198   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  think  of  bothering  you.  Thanks, 
though." 

"You  must  have  lost  your  key,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Chedsoye. 

"No.  It's  been  hanging  up  in  the  porter's  bureau 
all  day." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  find  the  rug,"  said  the  Major, 
with  a  sly  glance  at  his  sister. 

"Thanks.  I  must  be  off.  The  chap  I  bought  it 
of  says  that  the  official  guardian  from  Bagdad  has 
arrived,  and  that  there's  likely  to  be  some  sport.  I'm 
to  meet  him  at  a  place  called  the  English-Bar." 

"The  English-Bar?"  The  Major  shook  his  head. 
"A  low  place,  if  I  remember." 

"And  you  are  going  dressed  like  that?"  asked 
Mrs.  Chedsoye. 

"Haven't  time  to  change."  He  excused  himself 
and  went  in  search  of  a  carriage. 

"The  play  begins,  Kate,"  whispered  the  Major. 
"This  Hoddy  of  ours  is  a  wonderful  chap." 

"Poor  fellow!" 

"What;  Hoddy ^ 

"No;  Percival.  He'll  be  very  uncomfortable  in 
patent-leather  pumps." 


EPISODIC  199 

The  Major  laughed  light-heartedly.  "I  suppose 
we  might  telegraph  for  reservation  on  the  Ludwig" 

"I  shall  pack  at  once.  Fortune  can  find  her  way 
to  Mentone  from  Naples.  I  am  beginning  to  worry 
about  that  girl.  She  has  a  temper;  and  she  is  be- 
ginning to  have  some  ideas." 

"Marry  her,  marry  her !  How  much  longer  must 
I  preach  that  sermon?  She's  growing  handsomer 
every  day,  too.  Watch  your  laurels,  Kate." 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  inspected  her  rings. 

Meanwhile,  George  directed  his  driver  to  go 
post-haste  to  the  English-Bar.  That  he  found  it 
more  or  less  of  a  dive  in  nowise  alarmed  him.  He 
had  been  in  places  of  more  frightful  aspect.  As 
Ryanne  had  written  him  to  make  inquiries  of  the 
barmaid  relative  to  finding  him,  he  did  so.  She 
jerked  her  head  toward  the  door  at  the  rear.  George 
went  boldly  to  it,  opened  it,  and  stepped  inside. 

And  vanished  from  the  haunts  of  men. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   CARAVAN   IN   THE   DESERT 

YES,  George  vanished  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
as  completely  as  if  the  Great  Roc  had  dropped 
him  into  the  Valley  of  Diamonds  and  left  him  there ; 
and  as  nobody  knows  just  where  the  Valley  of 
Diamonds  is,  George  was  very  well  lost.  Still, 
there  was,  at  the  end  of  a  most  unique  experience, 
a  recompense  far  beyond  its  value.  But,  of  course, 
George,  being  without  the  gift  of  clairvoyance,  saw 
nothing  save  the  immediate  and  imminent  circum- 
stances: a  door  that  banged  behind  him,  porten- 
tously; a  sack,  a  cloak,  a  burnouse,  or  whatever 
it  was,  flung  about  his  head,  and  smelling  evilly. 

George  hit  out  valiantly,  and  a  merry  scuffle  en- 
sued. The  room  was  small ;  at  least,  George  thought 
it  was,  for  in  the  space  of  one  minute  he  thumped 

200 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT     201 

against  the  four  sides  of  it.  He  could  see  nothing 
and  he  couldn't  breathe  very  well;  but  in  spite  of 
these  inconveniences  he  put  up  three  rounds  that 
would  have  made  some  stir  among  the  middle- 
weights.  In  the  phraseology  of  the  fancy,  he  had 
a  good  punch.  All  the  disappointments  of  the  day 
seemed  to  become  so  many  pounds  of  steam  in  his 
shoulder;  and  he  was  aware  of  a  kind  of  barbaric 
joy  whenever  he  hit  some  one.  All  the  circumspec- 
tion of  years,  all  of  the  gentle  blood  of  his  peaceful 
forebears,  gave  way  to  the  strain  which  still  lurks 
in  the  blood  of  civilized  humanity,  even  in  the  veins 
of  poets  and  parsons.  He  fought  with  all  the  tac- 
tics of  a  sailor  in  a  bar-room,  not  overnicely. 

A  table  toppled  over  with  a  smashing  noise. 
George  and  his  assailants  fell  in  a  heap  beside  it. 
Thwack!  Bang!  George  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
tugged  at  the  stifling  envelope.  Some  one  jumped 
upon  his  back,  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  style.  A  savage 
elbow- jab  disposed  of  this  incubus.  And  then  the 
racket  began  all  over  again.  George  never  paused 
mentally  to  wonder  what  all  this  rumpus  was  about ; 
time  enough  to  make  inquiries  after  the  scrimmage. 
Intrepidly,  as  Hereward  the  Wake,  as  Bussy  d'Am- 


202   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

bois,  as  Porthos  in  the  cave  of  Loch-Maria,  George 
fought.  He  wasn't  a  trained  athlete ;  he  hadn't  any 
science;  he  was  simply  ordinarily  tough  and  active 
and  clean-lived;  and  the  injustice  of  an  unpro- 
voked assault  added  to  physical  prowess  a  full 
measure  of  nervous  energy.  It  was  quasi-Homeric : 
a  modern  young  gentleman  in  evening  dress  holding 
off  for  several  minutes  five  sleek,  sinewy,  unham- 
pered Arabs.  But  the  days  of  the  gods  were  no 
more ;  and  no  quick-witted  goddess  cast  a  veil  across 
the  eyes  of  the  Arabs.  No;  George  had  to  shift 
for  himself.  Suddenly  there  came  a  general  rush 
from  the  center  of  the  room  into  one  of  the  right- 
angular  corners.  The  subsequent  snarl  of  legs  and 
arms  was  not  unlike  that  seen  upon  the  foot-ball 
field.  George  was  the  man  with  the  ball.  And 
then  to  George  came  merciful  darkness.  The  con- 
junction, as  in  astronomy,  of  two  planets  in  the 
same  degree  of  the  Zodiac — meaning  George's  head 
and  the  stucco-wall — gave  the  Arabs  complete  mas- 
tery of  the  field  of  battle. 

From  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  came  the 
voice  of  the  referee:  "Curses  of  Allah  upon  these 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   203 

white  dogs!  How  they  fight!"  And  Mahomed 
peered  down  into  the  corner. 

One  by  one  the  Arabs  got  up,  each  examining 
his  honorable  wounds.  George  alone  remained  un- 
moved, quiet  and  disinterested,  under  the  folds  of 
the  tattered  burnouse. 

"Is  he  dead?"  demanded  Mahomed. 

"No,  my  father.    His  head  hit  the  wall." 

"Hasten,  then.  Bind  his  feet  and  hands  and 
cover  his  eyes  and  mouth.  We  have  but  little 
time." 

There  was  a  long  way  yet  to  go,  and  Mahomed 
was  too  wise  and  cautious  to  congratulate  himself 
at  this  early  stage.  George  was  thereupon  trussed 
up  like  a  Christmas  fowl  ready  for  the  oven.  They 
wrapped  him  up  in  the  burnouse  and  carried  him 
out  to  the  closed  carriage  in  waiting.  No  one  in 
the  street  seemed  curious.  No  one  in  the  English- 
Bar  deemed  it  necessary  to  be.  Whatever  happened 
in  this  resort  had  long  been  written  in  the  book  of 
fate.  Had  a  white  man  approached  to  inquire  what 
was  going  on,  Mahomed  would  have  gravely  whis- 
pered that  it  was  a  case  of  plague  they  were  hurry- 


204   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ing  away  to  prevent  interference  by  the  English 
authorities. 

Once  George  was  snug  inside  the  carriage,  it  was 
driven  off  at  a  run  toward  the  tombs  of  the  caliphs. 
As  the  roads  were  not  the  levelest,  the  vehicle  went 
most  of  the  way  upon  two  wheels.  Mahomed  sat 
beside  his  victim,  watchful  and  attentive.  His  in- 
tention was  to  take  him  no  farther  than  the  outskirts 
of  the  city,  force  him  to  send  back  to  the  hotel  a 
duly  credited  messenger  for  the  rug,  after  which 
he  would  turn  George  adrift,  with  the  reasonable 
assurance  that  the  young  man  would  find  some  one 
to  guide  him  back  to  the  hotel.  After  a  while  he 
observed  that  George  had  recovered  and  was  grimly 
fighting  the  imprisoning  ropes. 

"You  will  need  your  strength,"  interposed  Ma- 
homed gently.  "If  I  take  the  cloth  from  your 
mouth,  will  you  promise  not  to  cry  out?"  There 
was  an  affirmative  nod,  and  Mahomed  untied  the 
bandage.  "Listen.  I  mean  you  no  harm.  If  you 
will  send  to  the  hotel  for  the  Holy  Yhiordes,  you 
will  be  liberated  the  moment  it  is  put  into  my 
hands." 

"Go  to  the  deuce!"  snapped  George,  still  dizzy. 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   205 

The  fighting  mood  hadn't  evaporated,  by  any  means. 
"You  know  where  it  is  better  than  I."  So  this  was 
Mahomed  ? 

"Fool !"  cried  the  other,  shaking  George  roughly. 

"Easy  there!  I  had  the  rug,  but  it  was  stolen 
this  afternoon."  He  was  very  weak  and  tired. 
"And  if  I  had  it,  I  shouldn't  give  it  to  you,"  with 
renewed  truculence ;  "and  you  may  put  that  in  your 
water-pipe  and  smoke  it." 

Mahomed,  no  longer  pacific,  struck  George  vio- 
lently upon  the  mouth.  He,  on  his  part,  was  un- 
knightly  enough  to  attempt  to  sink  his  teeth  in  the 
brutal  hand.  Queer  fancies  flit  through  a  man's 
head  in  times  like  this;  for  the  ineffectuality  of  his 
bite  reminded  him  of  Hallowe'ens  and  the  tubs  with 
the  bobbing  apples.  One  thing  was  certain:  he 
would  kill  this  pagan  the  very  first  opportunity. 
Rather  a  startling  metamorphosis  in  the  character 
of  a  man  whose  life  had  been  passed  in  the  peace- 
fulest environments.  And  to  kill  him  without  the 
least  compunction,  too.  To  strike  a  man  who 
couldn't  help  himself! 

"Hey  there !"  he  yelled.  "Help  for  a  white  man !" 
After  such  treatment  he  considered  it  anything  but 


206   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

dishonorable  to  break  his  parole.  And  where,  was 
Ryanne?  "Help!" 

Mahomed  swung  his  arm  round  George's  neck, 
and  the  third  cry  began  with  a  gurgle  and  ended 
with  a  sigh.  Deftly,  the  Arab  rebandaged  the 
prisoner's  mouth.  So  be  it.  He  had  had  his  chance 
for  freedom;  now  he  should  drink  to  the  bottom  of 
the  bitter  cup,  along  with  the  others.  He  had  had 
no  real  enmity  against  George;  he  was  simply  one 
of  the  pawns  in  the  game  he  was  playing.  But  now 
he  saw  that  there  was  danger  in  liberating  him. 
The  other !  Mahomed  caressed  his  wiry  beard.  To 
subject  him  to  the  utmost  mental  agony;  to  break 
him  physically,  too;  to  pay  him  back  pound  for 
pence;  to  bruise,  to  hurt,  to  rack  him,  that  was  all 
Mahomed  desired. 

George  made  no  further  effort  to  free  himself, 
nor  apparently  to  bestir  himself  about  the  future. 
Somewhere  in  the  fight,  presumably  as  he  fell 
against  the  table,  he  had  received  a  crushing  blow 
in  the  small  ribs;  and  when  Mahomed  threw  him 
back,  he  fainted  for  the  second  time  in  his  life.  He 
reclined  limply  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  the 
bosom  of  his  shirt  bulging  open;  for  the  thrifty 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT    207 

Arabs  had  purloined  the  pearl-studs,  the  gold  col- 
lar-buttons, and  the  sapphire  cuff-links.  And  con- 
sciousness returned  only  when  they  lifted  him  out 
and  dropped  him  inconsiderately  into  the  thick  dust 
of  the  road.  He  stirred  again  at  his  bonds,  but 
presently  lay  still.  The  pain  in  his  side  hurt  keenly, 
and  he  wasn't  sure  that  the  rib  was  whole.  What 
time  had  passed  since  his  entrance  to  the  English- 
Bar  was  beyond  his  reckoning,  but  he  knew  that  it 
was  yet  in  the  dark  of  night,  as  no  light  whatever 
penetrated  the  cloth  over  his  eyes.  That  he  was 
somewhere  outside  the  city  he  was  assured  by  the 
tang  of  the  winter  wind.  He  heard  low  voices — 
Arabic ;  and  while  he  possessed  a  smattering  of  the 
tongue,  his  head  ached  too  sharply  for  him  to  sense 
a  word.  Later,  a  camel  coughed.  Camels?  And 
where  were  they  taking  him  upon  a  camel?  Bag- 
dad? Impossible:  there  were  too  many  white  men 
following  the  known  camel-ways.  He  groaned  a 
little,  but  the  sound  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  his 
captors.  To  ride  a  camel  under  ordinary  conditions 
was  a  painful  affair;  but  to  straddle  the  ungainly 
brute,  dressed  as  he  was,  in  a  swallow-tail  and 
paper-thin  pumps,  did  not  promote  any  pleasurable 


208   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

thoughts.  They  would  in  all  truth  kill  him  before 
they  got  through.  Hang  the  rug!  And  doubly 
hang  the  man  who  had  sold  it  to  him ! 

His  whilom  friend,  conscience,  came  back  and  gib- 
bered at  him.  Once  she  had  said :  "Don't  do  it !" 
and  now  she  was  saying  quite  humanly:  "I  told 
you  so!"  Hadn't  she  warned  him?  Hadn't  she 
swung  her  red  lantern  under  his  very  nose?  Well, 
she  hoped  he  was  satisfied.  His  reply  to  this  brief 
jeremiad  was  that  if  ever  he  got  his  hands  upon 
the  rug  again,  he  would  hang  on  till  the  crack  of 
doom,  and  conscience  herself  could  go  hang.  Mere 
perverseness,  probably.  And  where  was  it,  since  he 
was  now  certain  that  Mahomed  had  it  not  ?  It  was 
Ryanne;  Ryanne,  smooth  and  plausible  of  tongue. 
Not  being  satisfied  with  a  thousand  pounds,  he  had 
stolen  it  again  to  mulct  some  other  simple,  trustful 
person.  George,  usually  so  unsuspicious,  was  now 
quite  willing  to  believe  anything  of  anybody. 

He  felt  himself  being  lifted  to  his  feet.  The  rope 
round  his  ankles  was  thrown  off.  His  feet  stung 
under  the  renewed  flow  of  blood.  He  waited  for 
them  to  liberate  his  hands,  but  the  galling  rope  was 
not  disturbed.  It  was  evident  that  the  natives  still 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   209 

entertained  some  respect  for  his  fighting  ability. 
Next,  they  boosted  him,  flung  a  leg  here  and  a  leg 
there ;  then  came  a  lurch  forward,  a  lurch  backward, 
the  recurrence  of  the  pain  in  his  side,  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  upon  the  back  of  a  camel,  desert-bound. 
There  were  stirrups,  and  as  life  began  to  spread 
vigor  once  more  through  his  legs,  he  found  the  steel. 
The  straps  were  too  short,  and  in  time  the  upper 
turn  of  the  steel  chafed  his  insteps.  He  eased  him- 
self by  riding  sidewise,  the  proper  way  to  ride  a 
camel,  but  with  constant  straining  to  keep  his  bal- 
ance without  the  use  of  his  hands.  Fortunately, 
they  were  not  traveling  very  fast,  otherwise,  what 
with  the  stabbing  pains  in  his  side,  produced  by  the 
unvarying  dog-trot,  he  must  have  fallen.  He  was 
miserable,  yet  defiant;  tears  of  anger  and  pain  filled 
his  eyes  and  burned  down  his  cheeks  in  spite  of  the 
cloth. 

And  he,  poor  fool,  had  always  been  longing  for 
an  adventure,  a  taste  of  life  outside  the  peaceful 
harbor  wherein  he  had  sailed  his  cat-boat!  Well, 
here  he  was,  in  the  deep-sea  water ;  and  he  read  him- 
self so  truly  that  he  knew  the  adventure  he  had 
longed  for  had  been  the  cut-and-dried  affairs  of 


story-tellers,  in  which  only  the  villains  were  seri- 
ously discommoded,  and  everything  ended  happily. 
A  dashing  hero  he  was,  to  be  sure!  Why  hadn't 
he  changed  his  clothes?  Was  there  ever  such  an 
ass?  Ryanne  had  told  him  that  there  was  likely 
to  be  sport;  and  yet  he  had  left  the  hotel  as  one 
dressed  for  the  opera.  Ass!  And  to-morrow  the 
Ludwig  would  sail  without  him. 

The  wind  blew  cold  against  his  chest,  and  the  fact 
that  he  could  neither  see,  nor  use  his  tongue  to  mois- 
ten his  bruised  lips,  added  to  the  discomforts.  Back 
and  forth  he  swayed  and  rocked.  The  pain  in  his 
side  was  gradually  minimized  by  the  torture  bear- 
ing upon  his  ankles,  his  knees,  across  his  shoulders. 
Finally,  when  in  dull  despair  he  was  about  to  give  up 
and  slide  off,  indifferent  whether  the  camels  fol- 
lowing trampled  him  or  not,  a  halt  was  called.  It 
steadied  him.  Some  one  reached  up  and  untied  the 
thong  that  strangled  the  life  in  his  hands.  For- 
ward again.  This  was  a  trifle  better.  He  could  now 
ease  himself  with  his  hands.  No  one  interfered 
with  him  when  he  tore  off  the  bandages  over  his 
eyes  and  mouth.  The  camels  were  now  urged  to  a 
swifter  pace. 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   211 

Egyptian  night,  well  called,  he  thought.  He  could 
discern  nothing  but  phantom-like  grey  silhouettes 
that  bobbed  up  and  down  after  the  fashion  of  corks 
upon  water.  Before  him  and  behind  him ;  how  many 
camels  made  up  the  caravan  he  could  not  tell.  He 
could  hear  the  faint  slip-slip  as  the  beasts  shuffled 
forward  in  the  fine  and  heavy  sand.  They  were 
well  out  into  the  desert,  but  what  desert  was  as 
yet  a  mystery.  He  had  forgotten  to  keep  the  points 
of  the  compass  in  his  mind.  And  to  pick  out  his 
bearings  by  any  particular  star  was  to  him  no  more 
simple  than  translating  Chinese. 

Far,  far  away  behind  he  saw  a  luminous  pallor 
in  the  sky,  the  reflected  lights  of  Cairo.  And  only 
a  few  hours  ago  he  had  complained  to  the  head- 
waiter  because  of  the  bits  of  cork  floating  in  his 
glass  of  wine.  Ah,  for  the  dregs  of  that  bottle 
now ;  warmth,  revival,  new  courage !  .  .  .  Curse 
the  luck !  There  went  one  of  his  pumps.  He  called 
out.  The  man  riding  in  front  and  leading  George's 
camel  merely  gave  a  yank  at  the  rope.  The  camel 
responded  with  a  cough  and  a  quickened  gait. 

Presently  George  became  aware  of  a  singular 
fact :  that  he  could  see  out  of  one  eye  better  than  the 


THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

other;  and  that  the  semi-useless  orb  shot  out  little 
stars  with  every  beat  of  his  heart.  One  of  his  ears, 
too,  began  to  throb  and  burn.  He  felt  of  it.  It  was 
less  like  an  ear  than  a  mushroom.  It  had  been  a 
rattling  good  mix-up,  anyhow;  and  he  accepted 
the  knowledge  rather  proudly  that  the  George  Perci- 
val  Algernon,  who  but  lately  had  entered  the 
English-Bar  sprucely  and  had  made  his  exit  in  a  kind 
of  negligible  attire,  had  left  behind  one  character 
and  brought  away  another.  Never  again  was  he 
going  to  be  afraid  of  anything;  never  again  was 
he  going  to  be  shy :  the  tame  tiger,  as  it  were,  had 
had  his  first  taste  of  blood. 

Dawn,  dawn ;  if  only  the  horizon  would  brighten 
up  a  little  so  that  he  could  get  his  bearings.  By 
now  they  were  at  least  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  from 
Cairo;  but  in  what  direction? 

Hour  after  hour  went  by;  over  this  huge  grey 
roll  of  sand,  down  into  that  cup-like  valley ;  sound- 
less save  when  the  camels  protested  or  his  stirrup 
clinked  against  a  buckle;  all  with  the  somber  aspect 
of  a  scene  from  Dante.  Several  black  spots,  mov- 
ing in  circles  far  above,  once  attracted  George;  and 
he  knew  them  to  be  kites,  which  will  follow  a 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   213 

caravan  into  the  desert  even  as  a  gull  will  follow 
a  ship  out  to  sea.  Later,  a  torpid  indifference  took 
possession  of  him,  and  the  sense  of  pain  grew  less 
under  the  encroaching  numbness. 

And  when  at  last  the  splendor  of  the  dawn  upon 
the  desert  flashed  like  a  sword-blade  along  the  sky 
in  the  east,  grew  and  widened,  George  compre- 
hended one  thing  clearly,  that  they  were  in  the 
Arabian  desert,  out  of  the  main  traveled  paths,  in 
the  middle  of  nowhere. 

His  sense  of  beauty  did  not  respond  to  the  marvel 
of  the  transformation.  The  dark  grey  of  the  sand- 
hills that  became  violet  at  their  bases,  to  fade  away 
upward  into  little  pinnacles  of  shimmering  gold ;  the 
drab,  formless,  scattered  boulders,  now  assuming 
clear-cut  shapes,  transfused  with  ruby  and  sapphire 
glowing ;  the  sun  itself  that  presently  lifted  its  rosal 
warming  circle  above  the  stepping-off  place — George 
saw  but  noted  not.  The  physical  picture  was  over- 
shadowed by  the  one  he  drew  in  his  mind :  the  good 
ship  Ludwig,  boring  her  way  out  into  the  sea. 

The  sun  was  free  from  the  desert's  rim  when  the 
leading  camel  was  halted.  A  confusion  ensued;  the 
camels  following  stupidly  into  one  another,  in  a 


214   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

kind  of  panic.  Out  of  the  silence  came  a  babble  of 
voices,  a  grunting-,  a  clatter  of  pack-baskets  and 
saddle-bags.  George,  as  his  camel  kneeled,  slid  off 
involuntarily  and  tumbled  against  a  small  hillock, 
and  lay  there,  without  any  distinct  sense  of  what 
was  going  on  round  him.  The  sand,  fine  and  mu- 
table, formed  a  couch  comfortingly  under  his  aching 
body;  and  he  fell  asleep,  exhausted.  Already  the 
impalpable  dust,  which  had  risen  and  followed  the 
caravan  all  through  the  night,  had  powdered  his 
clothes,  and  his  face  was  stained  and  streaked.  His 
head  lay  in  the  sand,  his  soft  Fedora  crushed  under 
his  shoulders.  What  with  the  bruises  visible,  the 
rents  in  his  coat,  the  open  shirt,  soiled,  crumpled, 
collarless,  he  invited  pity;  only  none  came  from  the 
busy  Arabs.  As  he  slept,  a  frown  gathered  upon 
his  face  ajid  remained  there. 

When  he  came  back  from  his  troubled  dreams,  a 
bowl  of  rice,  thinned  by  hot  water,  was  given  him. 
He  cleaned  the  bowl,  not  because  he  was  hungry, 
but  because  he  knew  that  somewhere  along  this 
journey  he  would  need  strength;  and  the  recurring 
fury  against  his  duress  caused  him  to  fling  the 
empty  bowl  at  the  head  of  the  camel-boy  who  had 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT    215 

brought  it.  The  boy  ducked,  laughing.  George 
lay  down  again.  Let  them  cut  his  throat  if  they 
wanted  to;  it  was  all  the  same  to  him.  Again  he 
slept,  and  when  he  was  roughly  and  forcibly  awak- 
ened, he  sat  up  with  a  snarl  and  looked  about. 

His  head  was  clear  now,  and  he  began  to  take 
notes.  He  counted  ten,  eleven,  twelve  camels;  a 
caravan  in  truth,  prepared  for  a  long  and  continu- 
ous journey.  There  were  three  pack-camels,  laden 
with  wood,  tents,  and  such  cooking  utensils  as  the 
frugal  Arab  had  need  of.  Certainly  Mahomed  was 
a  rich  man,  whether  he  owned  the  camels  or  hired 
them  for  the  occasion.  Upon  one  of  the  beasts  they 
were  putting  up  a  mahmal,  a  canopy  used  to  pro- 
tect women  from  the  sun  while  riding.  One  Arab, 
taller,  more  robust  than  the  others,  moved  hither  and 
thither  authoritatively.  Wound  about  \nsjarboosh 
or  fez  was  a  bright  green  cufia,  signifying  that  the 
wearer  had  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Holy  Mecca. 
This  individual  George  assumed  to  be  Mahomed 
himself.  And  he  recognized  him  as  the  beggar  over 
whom  he  had  stumbled  two  nights  gone.  Pity  he 
hadn't  known,  and  pitched  him  into  the  Nile  when 
he  had  had  the  chance. 


216   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Mahomed  completed  his  directions,  and  walked 
leisurely  toward  George,  but  his  attention  was  not 
directed  toward  him.  A  short  distance  away,  at 
George's  left,  was  a  man,  stretched  out  as  if  in 
slumber.  Over  his  inert  figure  Mahomed  watched. 
He  drew  back  his  foot  and  kicked  the  sleeping  man 
soundly,  smiling  amiably  the  while;  a  kick  which, 
had  Mahomed's  foot  been  cased  in  western  leather, 
must  have  stove  in  the  sleeper's  ribs.  Strange,  the 
victim  did  not  stir.  Mahomed  shrugged,  and  re- 
turned to  the  business  of  breaking  camp. 

George  was  keenly  interested  in  this  man  who 
could  accept  such  a  kick  apparently  without  feeling 
or  resentment.  He  stood  up  for  a  better  view.  One 
glance  was  sufficient.  It  was  Ryanne,  the  erst- 
while affable  Ryanne  of  the  reversible  cuffs :  his 
feet  and  hands  still  in  bondage,  his  clothes  torn,  his 
face  battered  and  bruised  like  a  sailor's  of  a  Sunday 
morning  on  shore-leave.  The  sight  of  Ryanne 
brightened  him  considerably.  Although  he  was 
singularly  free  from  the  spirit  of  malevolence,  he 
was,  nevertheless,  human  enough  to  subscribe  to 
that  unwritten  and  much  denied  creed  that  the 
misery  of  one  man  reconciles  another  to  his.  And 


THE  CARAVAN  IN  THE  DESERT   217 

here  was  company  such  as  misery  loved;  here  was 
a  man  worse  off  than  himself,  whose  prospects  were 
a  thousand  times  blacker.  Poor  devil!  And  here 
he  was,  captive  of  the  man  he  had  wronged  and 
beaten  and  robbed.  As  seen  through  George's  eyes, 
Ryanne's  outlook  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  con- 
template. But  oh!  the  fight  this  one  must  have 
been!  If  it  had  taken  five  natives  to  overcome 
him,  how  many  had  it  taken  to  beat  Ryanne  into 
such  a  shocking  condition  ?  He  was  genuinely  sorry 
for  Ryanne,  but  in  his  soul  he  was  glad  to  see  him. 
One  white  man  could  accomplish  nothing  in  the 
face  of  these  odds;  but  two  white  men,  that  was  a 
different  matter.  Ryanne,  once  he  got  his  legs, 
strong,  courageous,  resourceful,  Ryanne  would  get 
them  both  out  of  it  somehow.  .  .  .  And  if  Ryanne 
hadn't  the  rug,  who  the  dickens  had? 

The  jumble  of  questions  that  rose  in  his  mind, 
seeking  answers  to  the  riddle  of  the  Yhiordes  rug, 
subsided  even  as  they  rose.  The  bundle  to  the  far 
side  of  Ryanne  stirred.  He  had,  in  his  general 
survey  of  the  scene,  barely  set  a  glance  upon  it, 
believing  it  to  be  a  conglomeration  of  saddle-bags 
(made  of  wool  and  cotton)  and  blankets.  It  stirred 


2i8   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

again.  George  studied  it  with  a  peculiar  sense  of 
detachment.  A  woman;  a  woman  in  what  had  but 
recently  been  a  smart  Parisian  tailor-made  street- 
dress.  The  woman,  rubbing  her  eyes,  bore  herself 
up  painfully  to  a  sitting  posture.  She  was  white. 
All  the  blows  of  the  night  past  were  as  nothing  in 
comparison  With  this  invisible  one  which  seemed  to 
strike  at  the  very  source  of  life. 
Fortune  Chedsoye! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NOT   A    CHEERFUL   OUTLOOK 

GEORGE,  his  brain  in  tumult,  a  fierce  tigerish 
courage  giving  fictitious  strength  to  his 
body,  staggered  toward  her.  It  was  a  mad  dream, 
a  mirage  of  his  own  disordered  thoughts.  Fortune 
there?  It  was  not  believable.  What  place  had  she 
in  this  tangled  web  ?  He  ran  his  fingers  into  his 
hair,  gripped,  and  pulled.  If  it  was  a  dream  the 
pain  did  not  waken  him;  Fortune  sat  there  still. 
Through  what  terrors  might  she  not  have  passed 
the  preceding  night?  Alone  in  the  desert,  without 
any  of  those  conveniences  which  are  to  women  as 
necessary  as  the  air  they  breathe !  He  tried  to  run, 
but  his  feet  sank  too  deeply  into  the  pale  sand;  he 
could  only  plod.  He  must  touch  her  or  hear  her 
voice;  otherwise  he  stood  upon  the  brink  of  mad- 

219 


220   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ness.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  now;  he 
loved  her,  loved  her  as  deeply  and  passionately  as 
any  storied  knight  loved  his  lady;  loved  her  with- 
out thought  of  reward,  unselfishly,  with  great  and 
tender  pity,  for  unconsciously  he  saw  that  she,  like 
he,  was  all  alone,  not  only  here  in  the  desert,  but 
along  the  highways  where  men  set  up  their  dwell- 
ings. 

Mahomed,  having  an  eye  upon  all  things,  though 
apparently  seeing  only  that  which  was  under  his 
immediate  concern,  saw  the  young  man's  intention, 
and  more,  read  the  secret  in  his  face.  He  was  in- 
finitely amused.  There  were  two  of  them,  so  it 
seemed.  Quietly  he  stepped  in  between  George  and 
the  girl,  and  his  movement  freed  George's  mind  of 
its  bewilderment.  Unhesitatingly,  he  flung  himself 
upon  the  Arab,  striving  to  reach  the  lean,  brown 
throat.  Mahomed,  strong  and  unwearied,  having 
no  hand  in  the  actual  warfare,  thrust  George  back 
so  vigorously  that  the  young  man  lost  his  balance 
and  fell  prone  upon  the  sand.  He  was  so  weak 
that  the  fall  stunned  him.  Mahomed  stepped  for- 
ward, doubtless  with  the  generous  impulse  to  prove 
that  in  the  matter  of  kicks  he  desired  to  show  no 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   221 

partiality,  when  a  hand  caught  at  his  burnouse.  He 
paused  and  looked  down.  It  was  the  girl. 
"Don't  I  A  brave  man  would  not  do  that." 
Mahomed,  moved  by  some  feeling  that  eluded  im- 
mediate analysis,  turned  about.  It  was  time  to  be 
off,  if  he  wished  to  reach  Serapeum  the  following 
night.  Pursuit  he  knew  to  be  out  of  the  question, 
since  who  was  there  to  know  that  there  was  any- 
thing to  pursue?  But  many  miles  intervened  be- 
tween here  and  his  destination.  He  dared  not  enter 
Serapeum  in  the  daytime.  Lying  upon  the  canal- 
bank  as  it  did,  the  possibility  of  encountering  a  stray 
white  man  confronted  him.  Every  camel-way  fre- 
quented by  Europeans  must  of  necessity  be  avoided, 
every  town  of  any  size  skirted,  and  all  the  while  he 
must  keep  parallel  with  known  paths  or  become  lost 
himself.  Not  to  become  lost  himself,  that  was  his 
real  concern.  The  caravan  was  provisioned  for 
months,  and  he  knew  Asia-Minor  as  well  as  the 
lines  upon  his  palms.  There  were  sand-storms,  too ; 
but  against  these  blighting  visitations  he  would 
match  his  vigilant  eye  and  the  instinct  of  his  camels. 
The  one  way  in  which  these  peculiar  storms  might 
distress  him  lay  in  the  total  obliteration  of  the  way- 


222   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

signs,  certain  rocks,  certain  hills,  without  the  guid- 
ance of  which,  like  a  good  ship  bereft  of  its  com- 
pass, he  might  fall  away  from  his  course,  notwith- 
standing that  he  would  always  travel  toward  the 
sun. 

And  there  was  also  the  vital  question  of  water; 
he  must  never  forget  that;  he  must  measure  the 
time  between  each  well,  each  oasis.  So,  then,  aside 
from  these  dangers  with  which  he  felt  able  to  cope, 
there  was  one  unforeseen  :  the  chance  meeting  with 
a  wandering  caravan  headed  by  white  men  in  search 
of  rugs  and  carpets.  These  fools  were  eternally 
hunting  about  the  wastes  of  the  world;  they  were 
never  satisfied  unless  they  were  prowling  into  coun- 
tries where  they  had  no  business  to  be,  were  always 
breaking  the  laws  of  the  caliphs  and  the  Koran. 

The  girl  was  beautiful  in  her  pale,  foreign  way; 
beautiful  as  the  star  of  the  morning,  as  the  first 
rose  of  the  Persian  spring;  and  he  sighed  for  the 
old  days  that  were  no  more.  She  would  have 
brought  a  sultan's  ransom  in  the  markets.  But  the 
accursed  Feringhi  were  everywhere,  and  these  sickly 
if  handsome  white  women  were  more  to  them  than 
their  heart's  blood;  why,  he  had  never  ceased  to 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   223 

wonder.  But  upon  this  knowledge  he  had  mapped 
out  his  plan  of  torture  in  regard  to  Ryanne.  The 
idea  of  selling  Fortune  had  dimly  formed  in  his 
mind,  while  his  blood  had  burned  in  anger;  but  to- 
day's soberness  showed  him  the  futility  of  such  a 
procedure.  He  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  a 
foolish  move;  for  the  girl  would  eventually  prove 
an  encumbrance.  At  any  rate,  he  would  wring  one 
white  man's  heart  till  it  beat  dry  in  his  breast.  That 
her  health  might  be  ruined,  that  she  might  sicken 
and  die,  in  no  manner  aroused  his  pity.  This  at- 
tribute was  destined  never  to  be  awakened  in  Ma- 
homed's heart. 

The  kisweh,  the  kisweh,  always  the  Holy  Yhior- 
des;  that  he  must  have,  even  if  he  had  to  forego 
the  pleasure  of  breaking  Ryanne.  He  was  too  old 
to  start  life  anew ;  at  least,  too  old  to  stir  ambition. 
He  had  wielded  authority  too  many  years  to  sur- 
render it  lightly ;  he  had  known  too  long  his  golden- 
flaked  tobacco,  his  sherbet,  his  syrupy  coffee,  the 
pleasant  loafing  in  the  bazaars  with  his  merchant 
friends.  To  return  to  the  palace,  to  confess  to  the 
Pasha  that  his  carelessness  had  lost  him  the  rug, 
would  result  either  in  death  or  banishment;  and  so 


224   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

far  as  he  was  concerned  he  had  no  choice,  the  one 
was  as  bad  as  the  other.  So,  if  the  young  fool 
who  had  bought  the  rug  of  Ryanne  told  the  truth 
when  he  declared  that  it  had  been  stolen  again,  then 
Ryanne  knew  where  it  was;  and  he  could  be  made 
to  tell;  he,  Mahomed,  would  attend  to  that.  And 
when  Ryanne  confessed,  the  girl  and  the  other  would 
be  conveyed  to  the  nearest  telegraph-post.  That 
they  might  at  once  report  the  abduction  to  the  Eng- 
lish authorities  did  not  worry  Mahomed.  Not  the 
fleetest  racing-camel  could  find  him,  and  behind  the 
walls  of  the  palace  of  Bagdad,  only  Allah  could 
touch  him.  He  had  figured  it  all  out  closely;  and 
he  was  an  admirable  strategist  in  his  way.  Revenge 
upon  Ryanne  for  the  dishonor  and  humiliation,  and 
the  return  of  the  rug;  there  was  nothing  more  be- 
yond that. 

Before  George  had  the  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  Fortune,  he  was  raised  from  the  sand  and  bodily 
lifted  upon  his  camel ;  and  by  way  of  passing  pleas- 
antry, his  hat  was  jammed  down  over  his  eyes.  He 
swore  as  he  pulled  up  the  brim.  Swearing  was  an- 
other accomplishment  added  to  the  list  of  trans- 
formations. He  had  a  deal  to  learn  yet,  but  in  his 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK      225 

present  mood  he  was  likely  to  proceed  famously. 
He  readjusted  the  hat  in  time  to  see  Ryanne  un- 
ceremoniously dumped  into  one  of  the  yawning-  pack- 
baskets,  his  arms  and  legs  hanging  out,  his  head 
lolling  against  his  shoulder,  exactly  like  a  mari- 
onette, cast  aside  for  the  time  being.  A  man  of 
ordinary  stamina  would  have  died  under  such  treat- 
ment. But  Ryanne  possessed  an  extraordinary 
constitution,  against  which  years  of  periodical  dis- 
sipation had  as  yet  made  no  permanent  inroads. 
Moreover,  he  never  forgot  to  keep  his  chin  up  and 
his  waist-line  down.  The)''  put  him  into  the  pack- 
basket  because  there  was  no  alternative,  being  as  he 
was  incapable  of  sitting  upon  a  camel's  back. 

Next,  George  saw  Fortune,  unresisting,  placed 
upon  the  camel,  under  canopy.  At  least,  she  would 
know  a  little  comfort  against  the  day's  long  ride. 
His  heart  ached  to  see  her.  He  called  out  bravely 
to  her  to  be  of  good  cheer.  She  turned  and  smiled ; 
and  he  saw  only  the  smile,  not  the  swift,  decisive 
battle  against  the  onset  of  tears:  she  smiled,  and 
he  was  too  far  away  to  see  the  swimming  eyes. 

A  bawling  of  voices,  a  snapping  of  the  kurbash 
upon  the  flanks  of  the  camels,  and  the  caravan  was 


226   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

once  more  under  way.  George  looked  at  his  watch, 
which  fortunately  had  been  overlooked  by  the 
thieving  natives,  and  found  it  still  ticking  away 
briskly.  It  was  after  nine.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
learn  that  the  watch  had  not  been  injured.  Most 
men  are  methodical  in  the  matter  of  time,  no  mat- 
ter how  desultory  they  may  be  in  other  things. 
There  is  a  peculiar  restfulness  in  knowing  what  the 
hour  is,  whether  it  passes  quickly  or  whether  it 
drags. 

Further  investigation  revealed  that  his  letter  of 
credit  was  undisturbed  and  that  he  was  the  proud 
possessor  of  six  damaged  cigars  and  a  box  of  ciga- 
rettes. Instantly  the  thought  of  being  days  without 
tobacco  smote  him  almost  poignantly.  He  was  an 
inveterate  smoker,  and  the  fact  that  the  supply  was 
so  pitiably  small  gave  unusual  zest  to  his  craving. 
He  now  longed  for  the  tang  of  the  weed  upon  his 
lips,  but  he  held  out  manfully.  He  would  not  touch 
a  cigar  or  cigarette  till  nightfall,  and  then  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  smoke  half  of  either.  The  touch, 
selfish  and  calculating,  of  the  miser  stole  over  him. 
If  Ryanne  was  without  the  soother,  so  much  the 
worse  for  him.  The  six  cigars  he  would  not  share 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   227 

with  the  Archangel  Michael,  supposing  that  gentle- 
man came  down  for  a  smoke. 

Forward,  always  forward,  winding  in  and  out  of 
the  valleys,  trailing  over  the  hills,  never  faster, 
never  slower.  Noon  came,  and  the  brilliance  of 
afternoon  dimmed  and  faded  into  the  short  twi- 
light. Were  they  never  going  to  stop?  One  hill 
more,  and  George,  to  his  infinite  delight,  saw  a 
cluster  of  date-palms  ahead,  a  mile  or  so;  and  he 
knew  that  this  was  to  be  the  haven  for  the  ship  of 
the  desert.  The  caravan  came  to  it  under  the  dim 
light  of  the  few  stars  that  had  not  yet  attained  their 
refulgence.  Under  the  palms  were  a  few  deserted 
mud-houses,  huddled  dejectedly  together,  like  out- 
casts seeking  the  nearness  rather  than  the  compan- 
ionship of  their  co-unfortunates.  Men  had  dwelt 
here  once  upon  a  time,  but  the  plague  had  doubtless 
counted  them  out,  one  by  one.  They  made  camp 
near  the  well,  which  still  contained  water. 

Prayers.  A  wailing  chanted  forth  toward  Mecca. 
"God  is  great.  There  is  no  God  but  God." 

George  had  witnessed  prayers  so  often  that  he  no 
longer  gave  attention  to  the  muezzin  calling  at  even- 
tide from  a  minaret.  But  out  here,  in  the  blank 


228   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

wilderness,  it  caught  him  again,  caught  him  as  it 
had  never  done  before.  A  shiver  stirred  the  hair  at 
the  base  of  his  neck.  The  lean  bodies,  one  not  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  other  now,  kneeling,  standing, 
sweeping  the  arms,  touching  the  forehead  upon 
the  rug,  for  even  the  lowest  camel-boy  had  his 
prayer-rug,  ceaselessly  intoning  the  set  phrases — 
George  felt  shame  grow  in  his  heart.  Was  he  as 
loyal  to  his  God  as  these  were  to  theirs  ? 

A  good  fire  was  started,  and  the  funereal  aspect 
of  the  oasis  became  quick  and  cheerful.  A  little 
distance  from  the  blaze,  George  saw  Fortune  bend- 
ing over  the  inanimate  Ryanne.  She  was  bathing 
his  face  with  a  wet  handkerchief.  After  a  time 
Ryanne  turned  over  and  flung  his  arms  limply  across 
his  face.  It  was  the  first  sign  of  life  he  had  ex- 
hibited since  the  start.  Fortune  gently  pulled  aside 
his  arms  and  continued  her  tender  mercr.es. 

"Can  I  help?"  asked  George. 

"You  might  rub  his  wrists,"  she  ansv/ered. 

It  seemed  odd  to  him  that  they  should  begin  in 
such  a  matter-of-fact  way.  It  would  be  only  when 
they  had  fully  adjusted  themselves  to  the  situation 
that  questions  would  put  forth  for  answers.  He 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   229 

knelt  down  at  the  other  side  of  Ryanne  and  massaged 
his  wrists  and  arms.  Once  he  paused,  catching  his 
breath. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"A  rib  seems  to  bother  me.  It'll  be  all  right  to- 
morrow." He  went  on  with  his  manipulations. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?" 

"I  can't  say." 

His  knowledge  of  anatomy  was  not  wide;  still, 
Ryanne's  arms  and  legs  worked  satisfactorily.  The 
trouble  was  either  in  his  head  or  back  of  his  ribs. 
He  put  his  arm  under  Ryanne's  shoulder  and  raised 
him.  Ryanne  mumbled  some  words.  George  bent 
down  to  catch  them.  "Hit  'em  up  in  this  half, 
boys;  we've  got  them  going.  Hell!  Get  off  my 
head,  you  farmer!  .  .  .  Two  cards,  please." 
His  face  puckered  into  what  was  intended  for  a 
smile.  George  laid  him  back  gently.  Foot-ball  and 
poker:  what  had  this  man  not  known  or  seen  in 
life?  Some  one  came  between  the  two  men  and  the 
fire,  casting  a  long  shadow  athwart  them.  George 
looked  up  and  saw  Mahomed  standing  close  by.  His 
arms  were  folded  and  his  face  grimly  inscrutable. 

"Have  you  any  blankets?"  asked  George   coolly. 


230   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Mahomed  gave  an  order.  A  blanket  and  two 
saddle-bags  were  thrown  down  beside  the  uncon- 
scious man.  George  made  a  pillow  of  the  bags  and 
laid  the  blanket  over  Ryanne. 

"Why  do  you  waste  your  time  over  him?"  asked 
Mahomed  curiously. 

"I  would  not  let  a  dog  die  this  way,"  he  retorted. 

"He  would  have  let  you  die,"  replied  Mahomed, 
turning  upon  his  heel. 

George  stared  thoughtfully  at  his  whilom  ac- 
complice. What  did  the  old  villain  insinuate? 

"Can  I  do  anything  to  make  you  more  comfort- 
able?" speaking  to  Fortune. 

"I'm  all  right.  I  was  chilled  a  little  while  ago, 
but  the  fire  has  done  away  with  that.  Thank  you." 

"You  must  eat  when  they  bring  you  food." 

"I'll  try  to,"  smiling  bravely. 

To  take  her  in  his  arms,  then  and  there,  to  ap- 
pease their  hunger  and  his  heart's ! 

Self-consciously,  her  hand  stole  to  her  hair.  A 
color  came  into  her  cheeks.  How  frightful  she 
must  look !  Neither  hair-pin  nor  comb  was  left.  She 
threw  the  strands  across  her  shoulder  and  plucked 
the  snarls  and  tangles  apart,  then  braided  the  whole. 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   231 

\  [e1  watched  her,  fascinated.  He  had  never  seen  a 
woman  do  this  before.  It  was  almost  a  sacrilege 
for  him  to  be  so  near  her  at  such  a  moment.  'After- 
ward she  drew  her  blanket  over  her  shoulders. 

"You've  got  lots  of  pluck." 

"Have  I?" 

"Yes.    You  haven't  asked  a  question  yet." 

"Would  it  help  any?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  it  would.  I've  an  idea  that 
we're  all  on  the  way  to  the  home  of  Haroun-al- 
Rashid." 

"Bagdad,"  musingly. 

"It's  the  rug.  But  I  do  not  understand  you  in 
the  picture." 

"No  more  do  I." 

With  a  consideration  that  spoke  well  of  his  un- 
derstanding, he  did  not  speak  to  her  again  till  food 
was  passed.  Later,  when  the  full  terror  of  the 
affair  took  hold  of  her,  she  would  be  dreadfully 
lonely  and  would  need  to  see  him  near,  to  hear  his 
voice.  He  forced  some  of  the  hot  soup  down 
Ryanne's  throat,  and  was  glad  to  note  that  he  re- 
sponded a  little.  After  that  he  limped  about  the 
strange  camp,  but  was  careful  to  get  in  no  one's  way. 


232   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Slyly  he  took  note  of  this  face  and  that,  and  his 
satisfaction  grew  as  he  counted  the  aftermath  of  the 
war.  And  it  had  taken  five  of  them,  and  even  then 
the  result  had  been  in  doubt  up  to  that  moment 
when  his  head  had  gone  bang  against  the  stucco. 
He  took  a  melancholy  pride  in  his  swollen  ear  and 
half-shut  eye.  He  had  always  been  doubtful  re- 
garding his  courage ;  and  now  he  knew  that  George 
Percival  Algernon  Jones  was  as  good  a  name  as 
Bayard. 

The  camel-boys  (they  are  called  boys  all  the  way 
from  ten  years  up  to  forty),  having  hobbled  the 
beasts,  were  portioning  each  a  small  bundle  of  tibbin 
or  chopped  straw  in  addition  to  what  they  might 
find  by  grazing.  Funny  brutes,  thought  George, 
as  he  walked  among  the  kneeling  animals :  to  go 
five  days  without  food  or  water,  to  travel  continu- 
ously from  twenty-five  to  eighty  miles  the  day! 
Others  were  busy  with  the  pack-baskets.  A  tent, 
presumably  Mahomed's,  was  being  erected  upon  a 
clayey  piece  of  ground  in  between  the  palms.  No 
one  entered  the  huts,  even  out  of  curiosity;  so 
George  was  certain  that  the  desertion  had  been 
brought  about  by  one  plague  or  another.  A  smaller 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   233 

tent  was  put  up  later,  and  he  was  grateful  at  the 
sight  of  it.  It  meant  a  little  privacy  for  the  poor 
girl.  Great  God,  how  helpless  he  was,  how  helpless 
they  all  were! 

An  incessant  chatter,  occasionally  interspersed 
with  a  laugh,  went  on.  The  Arab,  unlike  the  East 
Indian,  is  not  ordinarily  surly ;  and  these  seemed  to 
be  good-natured  enough.  They  eyed  George  with- 
out malice.  The  war  of  the  night  before  had  been 
all  in  a  day's  work,  for  which  they  had  been  liberally 
paid.  While  he  had  spent  much  time  in  the  Orient 
and  had  ridden  camels,  a  real  caravan,  prepared  for 
weeks  of  travel,  was  a  distinct  novelty;  and  so  he 
viewed  all  with  interest,  knowing  perfectly  well 
that  within  a  few  days  he  would  look  upon  these 
activities  with  a  dull,  hopeless  anger.  He  went  back 
to  the  girl  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Have  you  any  idea  why  you  are  here?" 

"No;  unless  he  saw  me  in  the  bazaars  with 
Horace,  and  thought  to  torture  him  by  bringing  me 
along." 

Horace!  A  chill  that  was  not  of  the  night  ran 
over  his  shoulders.  So  she  called  the  adventurer 
by  his  given  name?  And  how  might  her  presence 


234   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

torture  Ryanne?  George  felt  weak  in  that  bitter 
moment.  Ay,  how  might  not  her  presence  torture 
him  also?  He  had  never,  for  the  briefest  space, 
thought  of  Ryanne  and  Fortune  at  the  same  time. 
She  spoke,  apathetically  it  was  true,  as  if  she  had 
known  him  all  her  life.  The  wisest  thing  he  could 
do  was  to  bring  Ryanne  to  a  condition  where  he 
could  explain  some  parts  of  the  enigma  and  be  of 
some  use.  Horace! 

"I'm  going  to  have  another  try  at  him,"  he  said. 

She  nodded,  but  without  any  particular  enthu- 
siasm. 

George  worked  over  Ryanne  for  the  better  part 
of  an  hour,  and  finally  the  battered  man  moved. 
He  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  this  time  no  sound 
issued  from  his  lips.  At  the  end  of  the  hour  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  smiled.  It  was  more  like  the 
grin  George  had  once  seen  upon  the  face  of  a  boxer 
who  had  returned  to  the  contest  after  having  been 
floored  half  a  dozen  times. 

"Can  you  hear  me?"  asked  George. 

Ryanne  stared  into  his  face.  "Yes,"  thickly. 
"Where  are  we?" 

"In  the  desert." 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK      235 

"Which  one?" 

"Arabian." 

Ryanne  tried  to  sit  up  alone. 

"Better  not  try  to  move.  They  banged  you  up 
at  a  great  rate.  Best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  to 
sleep.  You'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

Ryanne  sank  back,  and  George  bundled  him  up 
snugly.  Poor  devil ! 

"He'll  pull  himself  together  in  the  morning,"  he 
said  to  Fortune.  "I  did  not  know  that  you  kneAV 
him  well." 

"I  have  known  him  for  eight  or  nine  years.  He 
used  to  visit  my  uncle  at  our  villa  in  Mentone." 
She  smiled.  "You  look  very  odd." 

"No  odder  than  I  feel,"  with  an  ineffectual  at- 
tempt to  bring  together  the  ends  of  his  collar-band. 
"I  must  be  a  sight.  I  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry 
to  get  here.  Did  you  eat  the  soup  and  fish?" 

"The  soup,  yes;  but  I'm  afraid  that  it  will  be 
some  time  before  I  can  find  the  dried  fish  palatable. 
I  hope  my  courage  will  not  fail  me,"  she  added,  the 
first  sign  of  anxiety  she  had  yet  shown.  She  was 
very  lonely,  very  tired,  very  sad. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  Mahomed,  coming  over, 


236   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

spoiled  a  pretty  scene;  for  George  had  some  very 
brave  words  upon  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"Come,"  said  Mahomed  to  Fortune.  "You  will 
sleep  in  the  little  tent.  No  one  will  disturb  you." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Jones.  Don't  worry ;  I  am  not 
afraid." 

George  was  alone.  He  produced  one  of  his  pre- 
cious cigars  and  lighted  it.  Then  he  drew  over  his 
feet  one  of  the  empty  saddle-bags,  wrapped  his 
blanket  round  him,  and  sat  smoking  and  thinking 
till  the  heat  of  the  fire,  replenished  from  time  to 
time,  filled  him  with  a  comfortable  drowsiness;  and 
the  cigar,  still  smoking,  slipped  from  his  nerveless 
fingers,  as  he  lay  back  upon  the  hard  clay  and  slept. 
Romance  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world ;  but  for 
all  that,  a  man  must  eat  and  a  man  must  sleep. 

The  cold  dew  of  dawn  was  the  tonic  that  re- 
called him  from  the  land  of  grotesque  dreams.  He 
sat  up  and  rubbed  his  face  briskly  with  his  hands, 
drying  it  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  as  hasty  and 
as  satisfying  a  toilet  as  he  had  ever  made.  There 
was  no  activity  in  camp;  evidently  they  were  not 
going  to  start  early.  The  cook  alone  was  busy. 
The  fire  was  crackling,  the  kettle  was  steaming,  and 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   237 

a  pot  of  pleasant-smelling  coffee  leaned  rakishly 
against  the  hot  ashes.  The  flap  to  Fortune's  tent 
was  still  closed.  And  there  was  Ryanne,  sitting 
with  his  knees  drawn  up  under  his  chin,  his  hands 
clasped  about  his  shins,  and  glowering  at  no  visible 
tiling. 

"Hello!"  cried  George.     "Found  yourself,  eh?" 

Ryanne  eyed  him  without  emotion. 

"When  and  how  did  they  get  you?"  George  in- 
quired. 

"About  three  hours  before  they  got  you.  Some- 
thing in  a  glass  of  wine.  Dope.  I'd  have  cleaned 
them  up  but  for  that." 

"How  do  you  feel?" 

"Damned  bad,  Percival." 

"Any  bones  broken?" 

"No;  I'm  just  knocked  about;  sore  spot  in  my 
side ;  kicked,  maybe.  But  it  isn't  that." 

George  didn't  ask  what  "that"  was.  "Where  do 
you  think  he's  taking  us?" 

"Bagdad,  if  we  don't  die  upon  the  way." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  kill  us.  It  wouldn't  be  worth 
his  while." 

"You  did  not  give  him  the  rug?" 


238   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Not  I!" 

"It  comes  hard,  Jones,  I  know,  but  your  giving 
it  up  will  save  us  both  many  bad  days.  He  asked 
you  for  it?" 

"He  did." 

"Then  why  the  devil  didn't  you  give  it  to  him? 
What's  a  thousand  pounds  against  this  muddle?" 

"For  the  simple  reason  I  didn't  have  it  to  give 
up." 

"What's  that?" 

"When  I  went  up  to  my  room,  night  before  last, 
some  one  had  been  there  ^jhead  of  me.  And  at  first 
I  had  given  you  the  credit,"  said  George,  with  ad- 
mirable frankness. 

"Gone !"  There  was  no  mistaking  the  dismay  in 
Ryanne's  voice. 

^Absolutely." 

**Well,  I  be  damn!"  Ryanne  threw  aside  the 
blanket  and  got  up.  It  was  a  painful  moment,  and 
he  swayed  a  little.  "If  Mahomed  hasn't  it,  and  I 
haven't  it,  and  you  haven't  it,  who  the  devil  has, 
t^tti?" 

George  shook  his  head. 

"Jones,  we  are  in  for  it.     If  that  cursed  rug  is 


NOT  A  CHEERFUL  OUTLOOK   239 

Mahomed's  salvation,  it  is  no  less  ours.  If  we  ever 
reach  the  palace  of  Bagdad  and  that  rug  is  not 
forthcoming,  we'll  never  see  the  outside  of  the  walls 
again." 

"Nonsense !    There's  an  American  consul  at  Bag- 
dad" 

"And  Mahomed  will  notify  him  of  our  arrival!" 
bitterly. 

"Isn't  there  some  way  we  two  might  get  at  Ma- 
homed?" 

"Perhaps;  but  it  will  take  time.  Don't  bank 
upon  money.  Mahomed*  wants  his  head.  If  the 
rug  .  .  ."  But  Ryanne  stopped.  He  looked  be- 
yond George,  his  face  full  of  terror.  George  turned 
to  see  what  had  produced  this  effect.  Fortune  was 
coming  out  of  her  tent.  "Fortune?  My  God!" 
Ryanne's  legs  gave  under  and  he  sank,  his  face  in 
his  hands.  "I  see  it  all  now !  Fool,  fool !  He's 
going  to  get  me,  Jones ;  he's  going  to  get  me  through 
her!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MAHOMED   OFFERS   FREEDOM 

FORTUNE  had  slept,  but  only  after  hours  of 
watchful  terror.  The  slightest  sound  out- 
side the  tent  sent  a  scream  into  her  throat,  but  she 
succeeded  each  time  in  stifling  it.  Once  the  evil 
laughter  of  a  hyena  came  over  the  dead  and  silent 
sands,  and  she  put  her  hands  over  her  ears,  shiver- 
ing. Alone!  She  laid  her  head  upon  the  wadded 
saddle-bags  and  wept  silently,  and  every  sob  tore 
at  her  heart.  She  must  keep  up  the  farce  of  being 
brave  when  she  knew  that  she  wasn't.  The  men 
must  not  be  discouraged.  Her  deportment  would 
characterize  theirs;  any  sign  of  weakness  upon  her 
side  would  correspondingly  depress  them  the  more. 
She#  prayed  to  God  to  give  her  the  strength  to  hold 
out.  She  was  afraid  of  Mahomed;  she  was  afraid 

240 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM      241 

of  his  grim  smile,  afraid  of  his  mocking  eyes;  she 
could  not  sponge  out  the  scene  wherein  he  had  so 
gratuitously  kicked  Horace  in  the  side.  Horace! 
No,  she  did  not  believe  that  she  would  ever  forgive 
him  for  this  web  which  he  had  spun  and  fallen  into 
himself.  Two  things  she  must  hide  for  the  sake 
of  them  all:  her  fear  of  Mahomed  and  her  knowl- 
edge of  Ryanne's  trickery. 

What  part  in  this  tragedy  had  the  Arab  assigned 
her?  Her  fingers  twined  and  untwined,  and  she 
rocked  and  rocked,  bit  her  lips,  lay  down,  sat  up 
and  rocked  again.  But  for  the  exhaustion,  but  for 
the  insistent  call  of  nature,  she  would  never  have 
closed  her  eyes  that  night. 

And  her  mother!  What  would  her  mother  be- 
lieve, after  the  scene  that  had  taken  place  between 
them  ?  What  could  she  believe,  save  that  her  daugh- 
ter had  fulfilled  her  threat,  and  run  away?  And 
upon  this  not  unreasonable  supposition  her  mother 
would  make  no  attempt  to  find  out  what  had  become 
of  her.  Perhaps  she  would  be  glad,  glad  to  be  rid 
of  her  and  her  questions.  Alone!  Well,  she  had 
always  been  alone. 

The  only  ray  of  sunshine  in  all  was  the  presence 


242   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

of  Jones.  She  felt,  subtly,  that  he  would  not  only 
stand  between  her  and  Mahomed,  but  also  between 
her  and  Ryanne. 

"Hush!"  whispered  George.  "Don't  let  her  see 
you  like  this.  She  mustn't  know." 

"You  don't  understand,"  replied  Ryanne  miser- 
ably. 

"I  believe  I  do."  George's  heart  was  heavy. 
This  man  was  in  love  with  her,  too. 

Ryanne  struck  the  tears  from  his  eyes  and  turned 
aside  his  head.  He  was  sick  in  soul  and  body.  To 
have  walked  blindly  into  a  trap  like  this,  of  his  own 
making,  too !  Fool !  What  had  possessed  him,  usu- 
ally so  keen,  to  trust  the  copper-hided  devil?  All 
for  the  sake  of  one  glass  of  wine!  With  an  effort 
entailing  no  meager  pain  in  his  side,  he  stilled  the 
strangling  hiccoughs,  swung  round  and  tried  to 
smile  reassuringly  at  the  girl. 

"You  are  better?"  she  asked. 

There  was  in  the  tone  of  that  question  an  answer 
to  all  his  dreams.  One  night's  work  had  given  him 
his  ticket  to  the  land  of  those  weighed  and  found 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM  (   243 

wanting.     She  knew;  how  much  he  did  not  care; 
enough  to  read  his  guilt. 

It  appeared  to  George  that  she  was  accepting 
the  situation  with  a  philosophy  deeper  than  either 
his  or  Ryanne's.  Not  a  whimper,  not  a  plaint,  not 
a  protest  so  far  had  she  made.  She  was  a  Roland 
in  petticoats. 

"Oh,  I'm  bashed  up  a  bit,"  said  Ryanne.  "I'll 
get  my  legs  in  a  day  or  so.  Fortune,  will  you 
answer  one  question?" 

"As  many  as  you  like." 

"How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

George  wasn't  certain,  but  the  girl's  voice  was 
cold  and  accusing. 

"I  ?" 

"Yes.  Wasn't  it  the  note  that  you  wrote  to 
me?" 

Ryanne  took  his  head  in  his  hands,  wearily.  "I 
wrote  you  no  note,  Fortune;  I  have  never  written 
you  a  note  of  any  kind.  You  do  not  know  my 
handwriting  from  Adam's.  In  God's  name,  why 
didn't  you  ask  your  mother  or  your  uncle?  They 


244   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

would  have  recognized  the  forgery  at  once.    Who 
gave  it  to  you?" 

"Mahomed  himself." 

"Damn  him!"  Ryanne  grew  strong  under  the 
passing  fit  of  rage.  "No,  don't  tell  me  to  be  silent. 
I  don't  care  about  myself.  I'm  the  kind  of  a  man 
who  pulls  through,  generally.  But  this  takes  the 
spine  out  of  me.  .  I'm  to  blame ;  it's  all  my  fault." 

"Say  no  more  about  it."  She  believed  him.  She 
really  hadn't  thought  him  capable  of  such  baseness, 
though  at  the  time  of  her  abduction  she  had  been 
inclined  to  accuse  him.  That  he  was  here,  a  pris- 
oner like  herself,  was  conclusive  evidence,  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  of  his  innocence.  But  she 
knew  him  to  be  responsible  for  the  presence  of 
Jones;  knew  him  to  be  culpable  of  treachery  of 
the  meanest  order;  knew  him  to  be  lacking  in  gener- 
d^ity  and  magnanimity  toward  a  man  who  was 
practically  his  benefactor.  "What  does  Mahomed 
want  ?" 

"The  bally  rug,  Fortune.  And  Jones  here,  who 
had  it,  says  that  it  is  gone." 

"Vanished,  magic-carpet-wise,"  supplemented 
George, 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     245 

"And  Jones  would  have  given  it  up." 

"And  a  thousand  like  it,  if  we  could  have  bought 
you  out  of  this." 

"Jones  and  I  could  have  managed  to  get  along." 

"We  shouldn't  have  mattered." 

"And  would  you  have  returned  to  Mr.  Jones  his 
thousand  pounds?" 

"Yes,  and  everything  else  I  have,"  quite  honestly. 

"Don't  worry  any  more  about  the  rug,  then.  I 
know  where  it  is." 

"You?"  cried  the  two  men. 

"Yes.  I  stole  it.  I  did  so,  thinking  to  avert  this 
very  hour;  to  save  you  from  harm,"  to  George, 
"and  you  from  doing  a  contemptible  thing,"  to 
Ryanne.  "It  is  in  my  room,  done  up  in  the  big 
steamer-roll.  And  now  I  am  glad  that  I  stole  it." 

Ryanne  laughed  weakly. 

Said  George  soberly :  "What  contemptible  thing?" 
He  recollected  Mahomed's  words  in  regard  to 
Ryanne  as  the  latter  lay  insensible  in  the  sand. 

Ryanne,  quick  to  seize  the  opportunity  of  solving," 
to  his  own  advantage,  the  puzzle  for  George,  and 
at  the  same  time  guiding  Fortune  away  from  a 
topic,  the  danger  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  raised 


246   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

a  hand.  "I  bribed  Mahomed  to  kidnap  you,  Jones. 
Don't  be  impatient.  You  laughed  at  me  when  I  laid 
before  you  the  prospectus  of  the  United  Romance 
and  Adventure  Company.  I  wished  to  prove  to  you 
that  the  concern  existed.  And  so  here  is  your  ad- 
venture upon  approval.  I  thought,  of  course,  you 
still  had  the  rug.  Mahomed  was  to  carry  you  into 
the  desert  for  a  week,  and  by  that  time  you  would 
have  surrendered  the  rug,  returned  to  Cairo,  the 
hero  of  a  full-fledged  adventure.  Lord!  what  a 
mess  of  it  I've  made.  I  forgot,  next  to  his  bally 
rug,  Mahomed  loved  me." 

The  hitherto  credulous  George  had  of  late  begun 
to  look  into  facts  instead  of  dreams.  He  did  not 
believe  a  word  of  this  amazing  confession,  despite 
the  additional  testimony  of  Fortune,  relative  to 
Ryanne's  statements  made  to  her  in  the  bazaars. 

"The  biter  bitten,"  was  George's  sole  comment. 

Ryanne  breathed  easier. 

"Why  not  tell  Mahomed  at  once,  and  have  him 
send  a  courier  back  for  the  rug?"  suggested  For- 
tune. 

"By  Jove,  that  clears  up  everything.  We'll  do  it 
immediately."  George  felt  better  than  he  had  at 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     247 

any  stage  of  the  adventure.  Here  was  a  simple  way 
out  of  the  difficulty. 

"Softly,"  said  Ryanne.  "Let  us  come  down  to 
the  lean  facts.  If  that  rug  is  in  your  room,  For- 
tune, your  mother  has  discovered  it  long  before  now. 
She  will  turn  it  over  to  your  estimable  uncle.  None 
of  us  will  ever  see  it  again,  I'm  thinking.  The 
Major  knows  that  Jones  gave  me  a  thousand  pounds 
for  it."  Struck  by  a  sense  of  impending  disaster, 
Ryanne  began  to  fumble  in  his  pockets.  Gone! 
Every  shilling  of  it  gone!  "He's  got  that,  too; 
Mahomed;  the  cash  you  gave  me,  Jones.  Wait  a 
moment;  don't  speak;  things  are  whirling  about 
some.  Over  nine  hundred  pounds ;  every  shilling  of 
it.  We  mustn't  let  him  know  that  I've  missed  it. 
I've  got  to  play  weak  in  order  to  grow  strong  .  .  . 
But  they  will  at  least  start  up  a  row  as  to  your 
whereabouts,  Fortune." 

"No,"  thoughtfully;  "no,  I  do  not  think  they 
will." 

The  undercurrent  was  too  deep  for  George.  He 
couldn't  see  very  clearly  just  then.  The  United 
Romance  and  Adventure  Company;  was  that  all? 
Was  there  not  something  sinister  behind  that  name, 


248   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

concerning  him  ?  He  looked  patiently  from  the  girl 
to  the  adventurer. 

Ryanne  stared  at  the  yellow  desert  beyond.  His 
brain  was  clearing  rapidly  under  the  stimulus  of 
thought.  He  himself  did  not  believe  that  they 
would  send  out  search-parties  either  for  him  or  for 
Fortune.  He  could  not  fathom  what  had  given 
Fortune  her  belief;  but  he  realized  that  his  own  was 
based  upon  the  recollection  of  that  savage  mood 
when  he  had  thrown  down  the  gauntlet.  Now  they 
would  accept  it.  He  had  run  away  with  Fortune 
as  he  had  boldly  threatened  to  do.  The  mother  and 
her  precious  brother  would  proceed  at  once  to  New 
York  without  him.  He  had  made  a  fine  muddle  of 
it  all.  But  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  grain  too  much 
of  confidence,  he  had  not  been  here  this  day. 

Mahomed,  himself  astir  by  this  time,  came  over 
to  the  group,  leisurely.  The  three  looked  like  con- 
spirators to  his  suspicious  eye,  but  unlike  con- 
spirators they  made  no  effort  to  separate  because 
he  approached.  He  understood:  as  yet  they  were 
not  afraid  of  him.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons 
he  hated  white  men;  they  could  seldom  be  forced 
to  show  fear,  even  when  they  possessed  it.  Well, 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     249 

these  three  should  know  what  fear  was  before  they 
saw  the  last  of  him.  He  carried  a  kurbash,  a  cow- 
hide whip,  which  he  twirled  idly,  even  suggestively. 
First,  he  came  to  George. 

"If  you  have  the  Yhiordes,  there  is  still  a  chance 
for  you.  Cairo  is  but  fifty  miles  away.  Bagdad  is 
several  hundred."  He  drew  the  whip  caressingly 
through  his  fingers. 

"I  do  not  lie,"  replied  George,  a  truculent  sparkle 
in  his  eyes.  "I  told  you  that  I  had  it  not  It  was 
the  truth." 

A  ripple  of  anxiety  passed  over  Mahomed's  face. 
"And  you  ?"  turning  upon  Ryanne,  with  suppressed 
savageness.  How  he  longed  to  lay  the  lash  upon 
the  dog ! 

"Don't  look  at  me,"  answered  Ryanne  waspishly. 
"If  I  had  it  I  should  not  be  here."  Ah,  for  a  bit 
of  his  old  strength !  He  would  have  strangled  Ma- 
homed then  and  there.  But  the  drug  and  the  beat- 
ing had  weakened  him  terribly. 

"If  I  give  you  the  rug,"  interposed  Fortune,  "will 
you  promise  freedom  to  us  all  ?" 

Mahomed  stepped  back,  nonplussed.  He  hadn't 
expected  any  information  from  this  quarter. 


250   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  have  the  rug,"  declared  Fortune  calmly, 
though  she  could  scarcely  hear  her  own  voice,  her 
heart  beat  so  furiously. 

"You  have  it?"  Mahomed  was  confused.  Here 
was  a  turn  in  the  road  upon  which  he  had  set  no 
calculation.  All  three  of  them ! 

"Yes.  And  upon  condition  that  you  liberate  us 
all,  I  will  put  it  into  your  hands.  But  it  must  be 
my  writing  this  time." 

A  white  man  would  have  blushed  under  the  re- 
proach in  her  look.  Mahomed  smiled  amiably, 
pleased  over  his  cleverness.  "Where  is  the  kis- 
wehf" 

"The  kisweh?" 

"The  Holy  Yhiordes.  •  Where  is  it?" 

"That  I  refuse  to  tell  you.  Your  word  of  honor 
first,  to  bind  the  bargain." 

Ryanne  laughed.  It  acted  upon  Mahomed  like 
a  goad.  He  raised  the  whip,  and  had  Ryanne's 
gaze  swerved  the  part  of  an  inch,  the  blow  would 
have  fallen. 

"You  laugh?"  snarled  Mahomed. 

"Why,  yes.  A  bargain  with  your  honor  makes 
me  laugh." 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     251 

"And  your  honor?"  returned  Mahomed  fiercely. 
He  wondered  why  he  held  his  hand.  "I  have 
matched  trickery  against  trickery.  My  honor  has 
not  been  called.  I  fed  you,  I  gave  you  drink ;  in  re- 
turn you  lied  to  me,  dishonored  me  in  the  eyes  of 
my  friends,  and  one  of  them  you  killed." 

"It  was  my  life  or  his,"  exclaimed  Ryanne,  not 
relishing  the  recital  of  this  phase.  "It  was  my  life 
or  his ;  and  he  was  upon  my  back." 

Fortune  shuddered.  Presently  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  Mahomed's  arm.  "Would  you  take  my  word 
of  honor?" 

Mahomed  sought  her  eyes.  "Yes.  I  read  truth 
in  your  eyes.  Bring  me  the  rug,  and  my  word  of 
honor  to  you,  you  shall  go  free." 

"But  my  friends?" 

"One  of  them."  Mahomed  laughed  unpleasantly. 
It  was  an  excellent  idea.  "One  of  them  shall  go 
free  with  you.  It  will  be  for  you  to  choose  which. 
Now,  you  dog,  laugh,  laugh!"  and  the  tongue  of 
the  kurbash  bit  the  dust  within  an  inch  of  Ryanne's 
feet. 

"What  shall  I  do  ?"  asked  Fortune  miserably. 

"Accept,"  urged  Ryanne.    "If  you  are  afraid  to 


252   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

choose  one  or  the  other  of  us,  Jones  and  I  will  spin 
a  coin." 

"I  agree,"  said  George,  very  unhappy. 

"Have  you  any  paper,  Jones?" 

George  searched.  He  found  the  dance-card  to 
the  ball  at  the  hotel.  In  another  pocket  he  dis- 
covered the  little  pencil  that  went  with  it. 

"You  write,"  said  Mahomed  to  Fortune. 

"I  intend  to."  Fortune  took  the  card  and  pencil 
and  wrote  as  follows : 

"MOTHER  : 

"Horace,  Mr.  Jones  and  I  are  prisoners  of  the 
man  who  owned  the  rug,  which  you  will  find  in  the 
large  steamer-roll.  Give  it  to  the  courier  who  brings 
this  card.  And  under  no  circumstances  set  spies 
upon  his  .track."  In  French  she  added:  "We  are 
bound*for  Bagdad.  In  case  Mahomed  receives  the 
rug  and  we  are  not  liberated,  wire  the  embassy  at 
Constantinople  and  the  consulate  at  Bagdad. 

"FORTUNE." 

She  gave  it  to  Mahomed.  % 

"Read  it  out  loud,"  he  commanded.  While  he 
spoke  English  fluently,  he  could  neither  read  nor 
write  it  in  any  serviceable  degree.  The  note  he  had 
given  to  Fortune  had  been  written  by  a  friend  of 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     253 

his  in  the  bazaars  who  had  upon  a  time  lived  in  New 
York.  Fortune  read  slowly,  slightly  flushing  as 
she  evaded  the  French  script 

"That  will  do,"  Mahomed  agreed. 

He  shouted  for  one  of  his  boys,  bade  him  saddle 
the  hogin  or  racing-camel,  which  of  all  those  twelve, 
alone  was  his,  and  be  off  to  Cairo.  The  boy  dipped 
his  bowl  into  the  kettle,  ate  greedily,  saddled  the 
camel,  and  five  minutes  later  was  speeding  back  to- 
ward Cairo  at  a  gait  that  would  bring  him  there 
late  that,  night. 

Fortune  and  George  and  Ryanne  watched  him 
till  he  disappeared  below  a  dip  and  was  gone  from 
view.  In  the  minds  of  the  three  watchers  the  same 
question  rose:  would  he  be  too  late?  George  was 
cheerful  enough  thereafter,  but  his  cheerfulness  was 
not  of  the  infectious  kind. 

At  noon  the  caravan  was  once  more  upon  its  way. 
Ryanne  was  able  to  ride.  The  fumes  of  whatever 
drug  had  been  administered  to  him  had  finally  evap- 
orated, and  he  felt  only  bruised,  old,  disheartened. 
An  evil  day  for  him  when  he  had  set  forth  for  Bag- 
dad in  quest  of  the  rug.  He  was  confident  that 
there  would  be  no  rug  awaiting  the  courier,  and 


254   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

what  would  be  Mahomed's  procedure  when  the  boy 
returned  empty-handed  was  not  difficult  to  imagine. 
Mahomed  was  right;  so  far  honor  had  not  entered 
into  the  contest.  According  to  his  lights,  the  Arab 
was  only  paying  coin  for  coin.  But  for  the  girl, 
Ryanne  would  have  accepted  the  situation  with  a 
shrug,  to  await  that  moment  when  Mahomed,  eased 
by  the  sense  of  security,  would  naturally  relax  vigi- 
lance. The  presence  of  Fortune  changed  the  whole 
face  of  the  affair.  Mahomed  could  have  his  eyes 
and  heart  if  he  would  but  spare  her.  He  must  be 
patient;  he  must  accept  insults,  even  physical  vio- 
lence, but  some  day  he  and  Mahomed  would  play 
the  final  round. 

His  past,  his  foolish,  futile  past:  all  the  follies, 
all  the  petty  crimes,  all  the  low  dissipations  in  which 
he  had  indulged,  seemed  trooping  about  his  camel, 
mocking  and  gibbering  at  him.  Why  hadn't  he  lived 
clean  like  Jones  there  ?  Why  hadn't  he  fought 
temptation  as  he  had  fought  men?  Environment 
was  no  excuse;  bringing-up  offered  no  palliation; 
he  had  gone  wrong  simply  because  his  inclinations 
had  been  wrong.  On  the  other  hand,  no  one  had 
ever  tried  to  help  him  back  to  a  decent  living.  His 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     255 

mother  had  died  during  his  childhood,  and  her  in- 
fluence had  left  no  impression.  His  father  had  been 
a  money-maker,  consumed  by  the  pleasure  of  build- 
ing up  pyramids  of  gold.  He  had  never  reasoned 
with  his  youngest-born ;  he  had  paid  his  bills  without 
protest  or  reproach;  it  was  so  much  a  month  to  be 
written  down  in  the  expense  account.  And  the  first- 
born had  been  his  natural  enemy  since  the  days  of 
the  nursery.  Still,  he  could  not  acquit  himself;  his 
own  arraignment  was  as  keen  as  any  judge  could 
have  made.  Strong  as  he  was  physically,  brilliant 
as  he  was  mentally,  there  was  a  mortal  weakness 
in  his  blood ;  and  search  as  he  might  the  history  of 
his  ancestors,  their  lives  shed  no  light  upon  his  own. 
In  stating  that  his  face  had  been  granted  that 
dubious  honor  and  concern  of  the  perpetrators  of 
the  rogues'  gallery,  he  had  merely  given  rein  to  a 
seizure  of  soul-bitterness.  But  there  was  truth 
enough  in  the  statement  that  he  had  been  short  in 
his  accounts  many  thousands  at  his  father's  bank; 
gambling  debts ;  and  in  making  no  effort  to  replace 
the  loss,  he  was  soon  found  out  by  his  brother, 
who  seemed  only  too  glad  to  dishonor  him.  He 
was  given  his  choice :  to  sign  over  his  million,  due 


256   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

him  a  year  later  (for  at  this  time  the  father  was 
dead),  or  go  to  prison.  The  scandal  of  the  affair 
had  no  weight  with  his  brother;  he  wanted  the 
younger  out  of  the  way.  Like  the  hot-headed  fool 
he  was,  he  had  signed  away  his  inheritance,  taken  a 
paltry  thousand  and  left  America,  facing  imprison- 
ment if  he  returned.  That  was  the  kind  of  a 
brother  he  had.  Once  he  had  burned  his  bridges, 
there  came  to  him  a  dozen  ways  by  which  he  could 
have  extricated  himself.  But  once  a  fool,  always 
a  fool! 

Disinherited,  outcast,  living  by  his  wits,  ingenious 
enough;  the  finer  senses  callousing  under  the  con- 
tact with  his  inferiors;  a  gambler,  a  hard  drinker 
periodically ;  all  in  all,  a  fine  portrait  for  any  gallery 
given  over  to  rogues.  And  he  hadn't  worried  much 
over  the  moral  problem  confronting  him,  that  the 
way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard.  It  was  only  when 
love  rent  the  veil  of  his  fatuity  that  he  saw  himself 
as  he  really  was. 

Love!  He  gazed  ahead  at  Fortune  under  the 
mahmal.  That  a  guileless  young  girl  as  she  was 
should  enchain  him !  That  the  sight  of  her  should 
always  send  a  longing  into  his  soul  to  go  back  and 


MAHOMED  OFFERS  FREEDOM     257 

begin  over !  His  jaws  hardened.  Why  not  ?  Why 
not  try  to  recover  some  of  the  crumbs  of  the  fine 
things  he  had  thrown  away?  At  least  enough  to 
permit  him  to  go  again  among  his  fellows  without 
constantly  looking  behind  to  note  if  he  were  fol- 
lowed? By  the  Lord  Harry  I  once  he  was  out  of 
this  web  of  his  own  weaving,  he  would  live  straight ; 
he  swore  that  every  dollar  hereafter  put  in  his 
pocket  should  be  an  honest  one.  Fortune  could  never 
be  his  wife.  He  came  to  this  fact  without  any 
roundabout  or  devious  byways.  In  the  first  place, 
he  knew  that  he  had  not  touched  her ;  she  had  only 
been  friendly;  and  now  even  her  friendship  hung 
by  a  thread.  All  right.  The  love  he  bore  her  was 
going  to  be  his  salvation  just  the  same;  and  at  this 
moment  he  was  deadly  in  earnest. 

It  was  after  nine  when  they  were  ferried  across 
the  two  canals,  the  fresh-water  and  the  salt,  several 
miles  below  Serapeum.  The  three  weary  captives 
saw  a  great  liner  slip  past  slowly  and  majestically 
upon  its  way  to  the  Far  East.  She  radiated  with 
light  and  cheer  and  comfort;  and  all  could  hear 
faintly  the  pulsations  of  her  engines.  So  near  and 
yet  so  far;  a  cup  of  water  to  Tantalus!  At  mid- 


258   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

night  they  made  camp.  There  were  no  palms  this 
time;  simply  a  well  in  the  center  of  a  jumble  of 
huge  boulders.  The  tents  were  pitched  to  the  south- 
west, for  now  the  wind  blew,  biting  from  the  land 
of  northern  snows ;  and  a  fire  was  a  welcome  thing1. 
This  was  Arabia ;  Africa  had  been  left  behind.  Here 
they  awaited  the  return  of  the  courier,  who  arrived 
two  days  later,  dead  tired.  The  persons  to  whom 
the  card  had  been  sent  had  sailed  for  Naples  with 
the  steamer  Ludwig.  Mahomed  turned  upon  the 
three  miserables. 

"I  have  you  three,  then;  and  by  the  beard  of  the 
Prophet,  you  shall  pay,  you  shall  pay!  You  have 
robbed  and  beaten  and  dishonored  me;  and  you 
shall  pay!" 

"Am  I  guilty  of  any  wrong  toward  you?"  fal- 
tered the  girl.  Her  mother  had  gone.  She  had 
hoped  against  hope. 

"No,"  cried  Mahomed.  He  laughed.  "You  are 
free  to  return  to  Cairo  .  .  .  alone !  Free  to  take 
your  choice  of  these  two  men  to  accompany  you. 
Free,  free  as  the  air.  .  .  .  Well,  why  do  you 
hesitate?" 


CHAPTER  XV 
FORTUNE'S  RIDDLE  SOLVED 

FORTUNE,  without  deigning  to  reply,  walked 
slowly  and  proudly  to  her  tent,  and  disap- 
peared within.  She  looked  neither  at  Ryanne  nor 
at  George.  She  knew  that  George,  his  soul  filled 
with  that  unlucky  quixotic  sense  of  chivalry  which 
had  made  him  so  easy  a  victim  to  her  mother,  would 
not  accept  his  liberty  at  the  price  of  Ryanne's, 
Ryanne,  to  whom  he  owed  nothing,  not  even  mercy. 
And  if  she  had  had  to  ask  one  of  the  two,  George 
would  have  been  the  natural  selection,  for  she  trusted 
him  implicitly.  Perhaps  there  still  lingered  in  her 
mind  a  recollection  of  how  charmingly  he  had  spoken 
of  his  mother. 

She  could  have  set  out  for  Cairo  alone :  even  as 
she  could  have  grown  a  pair  of  wings  and  sailed 
259 


260   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

through  the  air!  The  fate  that  walked  behind  her 
was  malevolent,  cruel,  unjust.  She  had  wronged  no 
one,  in  thought  or  deed.  She  had  put  out  her  hand 
confidently  to  the  world,  to  be  laughed  at,  dis- 
trusted, or  ignored.  Was  it  possible  that  a  little 
more  than  a  month  ago  she  wandered,  if  not  happy, 
in  the  sense  she  desired,  at  least  in  a  peaceful  state 
of  mind,  among  her  camelias  and  roses  at  Mentone  ? 
Her  world  had  been,  in  this  short  time,  remolded, 
reconstructed;  where  once  had  bloomed  a  garden, 
now  yawned  a  chasm :  and  the  psychological  earth- 
quake had  left  her  dizzy.  That  Mahomed,  now 
wrought  to  a  kind  of  Berserk  rage,  might  begin  re- 
prisals at  once,  did  not  alarm  her;  indeed,  her  feel- 
ing was  rather  of  dull,  aching  indifference.  Noth- 
ing mattered  now. 

But  Ryanne  and  George  were  keenly  alive  to  the 
danger,  and  both  agreed  that  Fortune  must  go  no 
farther. 

Ryanne,  under  his  bitter  raillery  and  seeming 
scorn  for  sacred  things,  possessed  a  latent  magna- 
nimity, and  it  now  pushed  up  through  the  false 
layers.  "Jones>  it's  my  funeral.  Go  tell  her.  You 
two  can  find  the  way  back  to  the  canal,  and  once 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      261 

there  you  will  have  no  trouble.    Don't  bother  your 
head  about  me." 

"But  what  will  you  do?" 

"Take  my  medicine,"  grimly. 

"Ryanne,  you  are  offering  the  cowardly  part  to 
me!" 

"You  fool,  it's  the  girl.  What  do  you  and  I  care 
about  the  rest  of  it?  You're  as  brave  as  a  Hon. 
When  you  put  up  your  fists  the  other  night,  you 
solved  that  puzzle  for  yourself.  For  God's  sake, 
do  it  while  I  have  the  courage  to  let  you!  Don't 
you  understand?  I  love  that  girl  better  than  my 
heart's  blood,  and  Mahomed  can  have  it  drop  by 
drop.  Go  and  go  quickly!  He  will  give  you  food 
and  water." 

"You  go.     She  knows  you  better  than  me." 

"But  will  she  trust  me  as  she  will  you  ?  Percival, 
old  top,  Mahomed  will  never  let  me  go  till  he's  taken 
his  pound  of  flesh.  Fortune!"  Ryanne  called. 
"Fortune,  we  want  you !" 

She  appeared  at  the  flap  of  the  tent. 

"Jones  here  will  go  back  with  you.  Go,  both  of 
you,  before  Mahomed  changes  his  mind." 

"Miss  Chedsoye,  he  is  wrong.     He's  the  one  to 


go.  He  was  hurt  worse  than  I  was.  Pride  doesn't 
matter  at  a  time  like  this.  You  two  go,"  desper- 
ately. 

Fortune  shook  her  head.  "All  or  none  of  us ;  all 
or  none  of  us,"  she  repeated. 

And  Mahomed,  having  witnessed  and  overheard 
the  scene,  laughed,  a  laughter  identical  to  that  which 
had  struck  the  barmaid's  ears  sinisterly.  He  had 
not  studied  his  white  man  without  gathering  some 
irsight  into  his  character.  Neither  of  these  men 
was  a  poltroon.  And  when  he  had  made  the  offer, 
he  knew  that  the  conditions  would  erect  a  barrier 
over  which  none  of  them  would  pass  voluntarily. 
So  much  for  pride  as  the  Christian  dogs  knew  it. 
Pride  is  a  fine  buckler ;  none  knew  that  better  than 
Mahomed  himself;  but  a  wise  man  does  not  wear  it 
at  all  times. 

"What  is  it  to  be?"  he  demanded  of  Fortune. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  him?" 

"Whatever  you  will."  Ryanne  was  tired.  He 
saw  that  argument  would  be  of  no  use. 

"All  or  none  of  us."  And  Fortune  looked  at  Ma- 
homed with  all  the  pride  of  her  race.  "It  is  not 
because  you  wish  me  to  be  free;  it  is  because  you 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      263 

wish  to  see  one  of  my  companions  made  base  in  my 
eyes.     I  will  not  have  it!" 

"The  will  of  Allah!"  He  could  not  repress  the 
fire  of  admiration  in  his  own  eyes  as  they  took  in 
her  beauty,  the  erect,  slender  figure,  the  scorn  upon 
her  face,  and  the  fearlessness  in  her  great,  dark  eyes. 
Such  a  woman  might  have  graced  the  palace  of  the 
Great  Caliph.  He  had  had  in  mind  many  little  cruel- 
ties to  practice  upon  her,  that  he  might  see  the  men 
writhe,  impotent  and  helpless  to  aid  her.  But  in 
this  tense  and  dramatic  scene,  a  sense  of  shame  took 
possession  of  him;  his  pagan  heart  softened;  not 
from  pity,  but  from  that  respect  which  one  brave 
person  gives  free-handed  to  another. 

Mahomed  was  not  a  bad  man,  neither  was  he  a 
cruel  one.  He  had  been  terribly  wronged,  and  his 
eastern  way  had  but  one  angle  of  vision :  to  avenge 
himself,  believing  that  revenge  alone  could  soothe 
his  outraged  pride  and  reestablish  his  honor  as  he 
viewed  it  from  within.  Had  the  courier  returned 
with  the  Holy  Yhiordes,  it  is  not  impossible  that  he 
would  have  liberated  them  all.  But  now  he  dared 
not;  he  was  not  far  enough  away.  To  Bagdad, 
then,  and  as  swiftly  as  the  exigencies  of  desert 


264      THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

travel  would  permit.  One  beacon  of  hope  burned  in 
his  breast.  The  Pasha  might  be  deposed,  and  in  that 
case  he  could  immediately  dispose  of  his  own  goods 
and  chattels  and  seek  new  pastures.  It  would  come 
hard,  doubly  hard,  since  he  never  could  regain  the 
position  he  was  to  lose. 

Nine  hundred  pounds  English,  and  a  comfortable 
fraction  over;  the  yellow-haired  dog  would  have 
nothing  in  the  end  for  his  pains.  It  would  be  what 
the  Feringhi  called  a  good  joke. 

A  week  passed.  Christmas.  And  not  one  of  them 
recalled  the  day.  Perhaps  it  was  because  years  had 
passed  since  that  time  when  it  meant  anything  to 
them.  The  old  year  went  out  a-lagging;  neither 
did  they  take  note  of  this.  Having  left  behind  civi- 
lization, customs  and  habits  were  forgotten. 

Sometimes  they  rode  all  day  and  all  night,  some- 
times but  half  a  day,  and  again,  when  the  water  was 
sweet,  they  rested  the  day  and  night.  Never  a 
human  being  they  saw?  never  a  caravan  met  or 
crossed  them.  In  this  week,  the  secret  marvels  of 
the  desert  became  theirs.  They  saw  it  gleam  and 
waver  and  glitter  under  skies  of  brass,  when  the 
north  wind  let  down  and  a  breeze  came  over  from 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      265 

the  Persian  Gulf.  They  saw  it  covered  with  the 
most  amazing  blues  and  greys  and  greens.  They 
saw  it  under  the  rarest  azure  and  a  stately  fleet  of 
billowy  clouds;  under  the  dawn,  under  the  set  of 
sun,  under  the  moon  and  the  stars;  and  unfailingly 
the  interminable  reaches  of  sand  and  rock  and 
scrubby  bush,  chameleon-like,  readjusted  its  counte- 
nance to  each  change  in  the  sky.  George,  who  was 
a  poet  without  the  gift  of  expression,  never  ceased 
to  find  new  charms;  and  nothing  pleased  his  fancy 
more  than  to  see  the  cloud-shadows  scud  away 
across  the  sands.  Once,  toward  the  latter  end  of 
day,  Fortune  cried  out  and  pointed.  Far  away, 
palely  yet  distinctly,  they  saw  an  ocean  liner.  She 
stood  out  against  the  yellowing  sky  as  a  magic- 
lantern  picture  stands  out  upon  the  screen,  and 
faded  similarly.  It  was  the  one  and  only  mirage 
they  saw,  or  at  least  noticed. 

Once  another  caravan,  composed  wholly  of 
Arabs,  passed.  What  hope  the  prisoners  had  was 
instantly  snuffed  out.  Before  the  strangers  came 
within  hailing,  Mahomed  hustled  his  captives  into 
his  tent  and  swore  he  would  kill  either  George  or 
Ryanne  if  they  spoke.  He  forgot  Fortune,  how- 


266   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ever.  As  the  caravan  was  passing  she  screamed. 
Instantly  Mahomed  clapped  his  hand  roughly  over 
her  mouth.  The  sheik  of  the  passing  caravan 
looked  keenly  at  the  tent,  smiled  grimly  and  passed 
on.  What  was  it  to  him  that  a  white  woman  lay 
in  yonder  tent?  His  one  emotion  was  of  envy. 
After  this  the  prisoners  became  apathetic. 

Upon  the  seventh  day,  they  witnessed  the  desert's 
terrifying  anger.  The  air  that  had*  been  cool,  sud- 
denly grew  still  and  hot ;  the  blue  above  'began  to 
fade,  to  assume  a  dusty,  copperish  color.  The  camels 
grew  restless.  Quickly  there  rose  out  of  the  hori- 
zon saffron  clouds,  approaching  with  incredible 
swiftness.  Little  whirlwinds  of  sand  appeared  here 
and  there,  rose  and  died  as  if  for  want  of  air.  Ma- 
homed veered  the  caravan  toward  a  kind  of  bluff 
composed  of  sand  and  precipitous  boulders.  All 
the  camels  were  made  to  kneel.  The  boys  muffled 
up  their  mouths  and  noses,  and  Mahomed  gave  in- 
structions to  his  captives.  Fortune  buried  her  head 
in  her  coat  and  nestled  down  beside  her  camel, 
while  George  and  Ryanne  used  their  handkerchiefs. 
George  left  his  camel  and  sought  Fortune's  side, 
found  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly.  He  scarcely 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      267 

gave  thought  to  what  he  did.  He  vaguely  meant  to 
encourage  her;  and  possibly  he  did. 

The  storm  broke.  The  sun  became  obscured. 
Pebbles  and  splinters  of  rock  sang  through  the  pall 
of  whirling  sand.  A  golden  tone  enveloped  the  little 
gathering. 

Had  there  been  no  natural  protection,  they  must 
have  ridden  on,  blindly  and  desperately,  for  to  have 
remained  still  in  the  open  would  have  been  to  await 
their  tombs.  It  spent  its  fury  in  half  an  hour;  and 
the  clearing  air  became  cold  again.  The  caravan 
proceeded.  The  hair  of  every  one  was  dimly  yel- 
low, their  faces  and  their  garments. 

When  camp  was  made  that  night  it  found  the 
captives  untalkative.  The  girl  and  the  two  men  sat 
moodily  about  the  fire.  Fatigue  had  dulled  their 
bodies  and  hopelessness  their  minds.  The  men 
were  ragged  now,  unkempt;  a  stubble  of  beard 
covered  their  faces,  gaunt  yet  burned.  George  had 
lost  his  remaining  pump,  and  as  his  stockings  were 
now  full  of  holes,  he  had,  in  the  last  flicker  of  per- 
sonal pride,  wound  about  them  some  cast-off  cloths 
he  had  found.  There  was  not  enough  water  for 


268   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ablutions;  there  was  scarcely  enough  to  assuage 
thirst. 

By  and  by,  Ryanne,  without  turning  his  head, 
spoke  to  George.  "You  say  you  questioned  the 
courier  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He  says  he  showed  the  note  to  no  one?" 

"Yes." 

"And  so  no  one  will  try  to  find  us? 

"No." 

Ryanne  had  asked  these  questions  a  dozen  times 
and  George  had  always  given  the  same  answers. 

Up  and  away  at  dawn,  for  they  must  reach  the 
well  that  night.  It  was  a  terrible  day  for  them  all. 
Even  the  beasts  showed  signs  of  distress.  And  the 
worst  of  it  was,  Mahomed  was  not  quite  sure  of 
his  route.  Fortunately,  they  found  the  well.  They 
drank  like  mad  people. 

Ryanne,  who  had  discovered  a  pack  of  cards  in 
his  pocket,  played  patience  upon  a  spot  smoothed 
level  with  his  hand.  He  became  absorbed  in  the 
game;  and  the  boys  gathered  round  him  curiously. 
Whenever  he  succeeded  in  turning  out  the  fifty- 
two  cards,  he  would  smile  and  rub  his  hands  to- 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE  SOLVED      269 

gether.  The  boys  at  length  considered  him  un- 
balanced mentally,  and  in  consequence  looked  upon 
him  as  a  near-holy  man. 

Between  Fortune  and  George,  conversation  dwin- 
dled down  to  a  query  and  an  answer. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"No,  thanks ;  I  am  getting  along  nicely." 

To-night  she  retired  early,  and  George  joined 
Ryanne's  audience. 

"It  averages  about  nine  cards  to  the  play,"  he 
commented. 

Ryanne  turned  over  an  ace.  Ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  went  by.  In  the  several  attempts  he  had 
failed  to  score  the  full  complement. 

George  laughed. 

"What's  in  your  mind  ?"  cried  Ryanne  peevishly. 
"If  it's  anything  worth  telling,  shoot  it  out,  shoot 
it  out!" 

"I  was  thinking  what  I'd  do  to  a  club-steak  just 
about  now." 

Ryanne  stared  beyond  the  fire.  "A  club-steak. 
Grilled  mushrooms." 

"Sauce  Bordelaise.    Artichokes." 

"No.    Asparagus,  vinaigrette." 


270   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"What's  the  matter  with  endives?" 

"That's  so.    Well,  asparagus  with  butter-sauce." 

"Grilled  sweets,  coffee,  Benedictine,  and  cigars." 

"And  a  magnum  of  '1900'  to  start  off  with!" 
Ryanne,  with  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  scooped 
up  the  cards  and  flung  them  at  George's  head.  "Do 
you  want  us  both  to  become  gibbering  idiots?" 

George  ducked.  He  and  the  boys  gathered  in  the 
fluttering  paste-boards. 

"You're  right,  Percival,"  Ryanne  admitted  hum- 
bly. "It  will  not  hurt  us  to  talk  out  loud,  and  we 
are  all  brooding  too  much.  I  am  crazy  for  the  want 
of  tobacco.  I'd  trade  the  best  dinner  ever  cooked 
for  a  decent  cigar." 

George  put  a  hand  reluctantly  into  his  pocket.  He 
brought  forth,  with  extreme  gentleness,  a  cigar, 
the  wrapper  of  which  was  broken  in  many  places. 
"I've  saved  this  for  days,"  he  said.  With  his  pen- 
knife he  sawed  it  delicately  into  two  equal  parts,  and 
gave  one  to  Ryanne. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  Jones,  and  I've  turned  you 
a  shabby  trick.  I  shan't  forget  this  bit  of  tobacco." 

"It's  the  last  we've  got.  The  boys,  you  know,  re- 
fuse a  pull  at  the  water-pipe;  defiles  'em,  they  say. 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      271 

Funny  beggars !  And  if  they  gave  us  tobacco,  we 
shouldn't  have  paper  or  pipes." 

"I  always  carry  a  pipe,  but  I  lost  it  in  the  shuffle. 
I  never  looked  upon  smoking  as  a  bad  habit.  I  sup- 
pose it's  because  I  was  never  caught  before  without 
it.  And  it  is  a  bad  habit,  since  it  knocks  up  a  chap 
this  way  for  the  lack  of  it.  Where  do  you  get  your 
club-steaks  in  old  N.  Y.  ?" 

And  for  an  hour  or  more  they  solemnly  discussed 
the  cooking  here  and  there  upon  the  face  of  the 
globe. 

By  judicious  inquiries,  George  ascertained  that 
the  trip  to  Bagdad,  barring  accidents,  would  take 
fully  thirty-five  days.  The  daily  journeys  proceeded 
uneventfully.  Mahomed  maintained  a  taciturn 
grimness.  If  he  aimed  at  Ryanne  at  all,  it  was  in 
trifling  annoyances,  such  as  forgetting  to  give  him 
his  rations  unless  he  asked  for  them,  or  walking 
over  the  cards  spread  out  upon  the  sand.  Ryanne 
carried  himself  very  well.  Had  he  been  alone,  he 
would  have  broken  loose  against  Mahomed;  but  he 
thought  of  the  others,  and  restrained  himself — some 
consideration  was  due  them. 

But  into  the  blood  of  the  two  men  there  crept  a 


THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

petty  irritability.  They  answered  one  another 
sharply,  and  often  did  not  speak.  Fortune  alone 
seemed  mild  and  gentle.  Mahomed,  since  that  night 
she  had  braved  him,  let  her  go  and  come  as  she 
pleased,  nor  once  disturbed  her.  Had  she  shown 
weakness  when  most  she  needed  courage,  Mahomed 
might  not  have  altered  his  plans.  Admiration  of 
courage  is  inherent  in  all  peoples.  So,  without  ap- 
preciating it,  that  moment  had  been  a  precious  one, 
saving  them  all  much  unpleasantness. 

By  the  twentieth  day,  the  caravan  was  far  into 
the  Arabian  desert,  and  early  in  the  afternoon,  they 
came  upon  a  beautiful  oasis,  nestling  like  an  emerald 
in  a  plaque  of  gold.  So  many  days  had  passed 
since  the  beloved  green  of  growing  things  had 
soothed  their  inflamed  eyes,  that  the  sight  of  this 
haven  cheered  them  all  mightily.  Once  under  the 
shade  of  the  palms,  the  trio  picked  up  heart.  For- 
tune sang  a  little,  George  told  a  funny  story,  and 
Ryanne  wanted  to  know  if  they  wouldn't  take  a  hand 
at  euchre.  Indeed,  that  oasis  was  the  turning-point 
of  the  crisis.  Another  week  upon  the  dreary,  profit- 
less sands,  and  their  spirits  would  have  gone  under 
completely. 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE   SOLVED      273 

This  oasis  was  close  to  the  regular  camel-way, 
there  being  a  larger  oasis  some  twenty-odd  miles 
to  the  north.  But  Mahomed  felt  safe  at  this  dis- 
tance, and  decided  to  freshen  up  the  caravan  by 
a  two-days'  rest. 

George  immediately  began  to  show  Fortune  little 
attentions.  He  fixed  her  saddle-bags,  spread  out 
her  blanket,  brought  her  some  ripe  dates  of  his  own 
picking,  insisted  upon  going  to  the  well  and  draw- 
ing the  water  she  was  to  drink.  And  oh!  how 
sweet  and  cool  that  water  was,  after  the  gritty 
flat  liquid  they  had  been  drinking !  Just  before  sun- 
down, he  and  Fortune  set  out  upon  a  voyage  of 
discovery;  and  Ryanne  paused  in  his  game  of  pa- 
tience to  watch  them.  There  was  more  self-abnega- 
tion than  bitterness  in  his  eyes.  Why  not?  If 
Fortune  returned  to  her  mother,  sooner  or  later 
the  thunderbolt  would  fall.  Far  better  that  she 
should  fall  in  love  with  Jones  than  to  go  back  to  the 
overhanging  shadow.  A  smile  lifted  the  corners 
of  his  lips,  a  sad  smile.  Percival  didn't  look  the 
part  of  a  hero.  His  coat  was  variously  split  under 
the  arms  and  across  the  shoulders ;  his  trousers  were 
ragged,  and  he  walked  in  his  cloth  pads  like  a  man 


274   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

who  had  gout  in  both  feet.  A  beard  covered  his 
face,  and  the  bare  spots  were  blistered  and  peeling. 
But  there  was  youth  in  Percival's  eyes  and  youth  in 
his  heart,  and  surely  the  youth  in  hers  must  some 
day  respond.  She  would  know  this  young  man ;  she 
would  know  that  adversity  could  not  crush  him; 
that  the  promise  of  safety  could  not  make  a  coward 
of  him;  that  he  was  loyal  and  brave  and  honest 
She  would  know  in  twenty  days  what  it  takes  the 
average  woman  twenty  years  to  learn,  the  manner 
of  man  who  professed  to  love  her.  Ryanne  left 
the  game  unfinished,  stretched  himself  upon  the 
ground  with  his  face  hidden  in  the  crook  of  his 
arms.  Oh,  the  bitter  cup,  the  bitter  cup! 

Round  the  fire  that  night,  the  camel-boys  got  out 
their  tom-toms  and  reeds,  and  the  eerie  music  af- 
fected the  white  people  hauntingly  and  mysteriously. 
For  thousands  of  years,  the  high  and  low  notes  of 
the  drums  (hollow  earthen- jars  or  large  gourds 
covered  with  goat-skin  at  one  end)  and  the  thin,  me- 
tallic wail  of  the  reeds  had  echoed  across  the 
deserts,  unchanged.  The  boys  swayed  to  and  fro 
to  the  rhythm,  gradually  working  themselves  into 
an  ecstatic  frenzy. 


FORTUNE'S   RIDDLE  SOLVED      275 

Fortune  always  remembered  that  night.  Wrapped 
in  her  blanket,  she  had  lain  down  just  outside  the 
circle,  and  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  When  the  music 
stopped  and  the  boys  left  the  prisoners  to  them- 
selves, George  and  Ryanne  talked. 

"I  never  forget  faces,"  began  George. 

"No?    That's  a  gift." 

"And  I  have  never  forgotten  yours.  I  was  in 
doubt  at  first,  but  not  now." 

"I  never  met  you  till  that  night  at  the  hotel." 

"That's  true.  But  you  are  Horace  Wadsworth, 
all  the  same,  the  son  of  the  millionaire-banker,  the 
man  I  used  to  admire  in  the  field." 

"You  still  think  I'm  that  chap?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  The  first  morning  you  gave 
yourself  away." 

"What  did  I  say?"  anxiously. 

"You  mumbled  foot-ball  phrases." 

"Ah!"  Ryanne  was  vastly  relieved.  He  seemed 
to  be  thinking. 

"Do  you  persist  in  denying  it?" 

"I  might  deny  it,  but  I  shan't.  I'm  Horace 
Wadsworth,  all  right.  Fortune  knows  something 
about  that  chapter,  but  not  all.  Strikes  you  odd, 


276   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

eh?"  continued  Ryanne,  iron  in  his  voice.  "Every 
opportunity  in  the  world ;  and  yet,  here  I  am.  How 
much  do  you  know,  I  wonder  ?" 

"You  took  some  money  from  the  bank,  I  think 
they  said." 

"Right-O!  Wine,  Percival;  cards,  wine  and 
other  things.  Advice  and  warning  went  into  one 
ear  and  out  of  the  other.  Always  so,  eh  ?  You  have 
heard  of  my  brother,  I  dare  say.-  Well,  he  wouldn't 
lend  me  two  stamps  were  I  to  write  for  the  under- 
taker to  come  and  collect  my  remains.  Beautiful 
history!  I've  been  doing  some  tall  thinking  these 
lonely  nights.  Only  the  straight  and  narrow  way 
pays.  Be  good,  even  if  you  are  lonesome.  When 
I  get  back,  if  I  ever  do,  it's  a  new  leaf  for  mine. 
Neither  wine  nor  cards  nor  women." 

Silence.     The  fire  no  longer  blazed;  it  glowed. 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Chedsoye?"  George  finally  began 
anew. 

"First,  how  did  you  chance  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintance ?" 

"Some  years  ago,  at  Monte  Carlo." 

"And  she  borrowed  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
of  you." 


FORTUNE'S  RIDDLE  SOLVED      277 

"Who  told  you  that?"  quickly. 

"She  did.    She  paid  you  back." 

"Yes." 

"And  she  hadn't  intended  to.  You  poor  inno- 
cent!" 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that?" 

"To  lend  money  at  Monte  Carlo  to  a  woman 
whose  name  you  did  not  know  at  the  time !  Green, 
green  as  a  paddy  field!  I'll  tell  you  who  she  is, 
because  you're  bound  to  learn  sooner  or  later.  She 
is  one  of  the  most  adroit  smugglers  of  the  age; 
jewels  and  rare  laces.  And  never  once  has  the 
secret-service  been  able  to  touch  her.  Her  brother, 
the  Major,  assists  her  when  he  isn't  fleecing  tender 
lambs  at  all  known  games  of  chance.  He's  a  card- 
sharp,  one  of  the  best  of  them.  He  tried  to  teach 
me,  but  I  never  could  cheat  a  man  at  cards.  Never 
makes  any  false  moves,  but  waits  for  the  quarry  to 
offer  itself.  That  poor  child  has  always  been  won- 
dering and  wondering,  but  she  never  succeeded  in 
finding  out  the  truth.  Brother  and  sister  have 
made  a  handsome  living,  and  many  a  time  I  have 
helped  them  out.  There;  you  have  me  in  the  ring, 
too.  But  who  cares  ?  The  father,  so  I  understand. 


278   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

married  Fortune's  mother  for  love ;  she  married  him 
for  his  money,  and  he  hadn't  any.  Drink  and 
despair  despatched  him  quickly  enough.  She  is  a 
remarkable  woman,  and  if  she  had  a  heart,  she  would 
be  the  greatest  of  them  all.  She  has  as  much 
heart  as  this  beetle,"  as  he  filliped  the  green  iri- 
descent shell  into  the  fire.  "But,  after  all,  she's 
lucky.  It's  a  bad  thing  to  have  a  heart,  Percival,  a 
bad  thing.  Some  one  is  sure  to  come  along  and 
wring  it,  to  jab  it  and  stab  it." 

"The  poor  little  girl !" 

"Percival,  I'm  no  fool.  I've  been  watching  you. 
Go  in  and  win  her;  and  God  bless  you  both.  She's 
not  for  me,  she's  not  for  me!" 

"But  what  place  have  I  in  all  this?"  evasively. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Why  did  Mrs.  Chedsoye  pay  rile  back,  when  her 
original  intention  had  been  not  to  pay  me?" 

"You'll  find  all  that  written  in  the  book  of  fate, 
as  Mahomed  would  say.  More,  I  can  not  tell  you." 

"Will  not?" 

"Well,  that  phrase  expresses  it." 

They  both  heard  the  sound.  Fortune,  her  face 
white  and  drawn,  stood  immediately  behind  them. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

MAHOMED    RIDES    ALONE 

IT  WAS  as  if  the  stillness  of  the  desert  itself  had 
encompassed  the  two  men.  In  their  ears  the 
slither  of  the  brittle  palm-leaves  against  one 
another  and  the  crackle  of  the  fire  were  no  longer 
sounds.  They  stared  at  Fortune  with  that  speech- 
less wonder  of  men  who  had  come  unexpectedly 
upon  a  wraith.  What  with  the  faint  glow  of  the 
fire  upon  one  side  of  her  and  the  pallor  of  moon- 
shine upon  the  other,  she  did  indeed  resemble 
man's  conception  of  the  spiritual. 

Ryanne  was  first  to  pull  himself  together. 

"Fortune,  I  am  sorry;  God  knows  I  am.  I'd 
have  cut  out  my  tongue  rather  than  have  hurt 
you.  I  thought  you  were  asleep  in  the  tent." 

"Is  it  true?" 

279 


280   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Yes."     Ryanne  looked  away. 

"I  had  not  quite  expected  this:  the  daughter 
of  a  thief." 

"Oh,  come  now;  don't  look  at  it  that  way. 
Smuggling  is  altogether  a  different  thing,"  pro- 
tested Ryanne.  (Women  were  uncertain;  here  she 
was,  apparently  the  least  agitated  of  the  three.) 
"Why,  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  who  regularly 
go  to  church,  think  nothing  of  beating  Uncle 
Sam  out  of  a  few  dollars.  Here's  Jones,  for  in- 
stance; he  would  have  tried  to  smuggle  in  that 
rug.  Isn't  that  right,  Jones?" 

"Of  course!"  cried  George  eagerly,  though 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  said.  "I'd  have  done 
it." 

"And  you  wouldn't  call  Percival  a  thief,"  with  a 
forced  laugh.  "It's  like  this,  Fortune.  Uncle 
Sam  wants  altogether  too  much  rake-off.  He 
doesn't  give  us  a  square  deal;  and  so  we  even  up 
the  matter  by  trying  to  beat  him.  Scruples? 
Rot!" 

"It  is  stealing,"  with  quiet  conviction. 

"It  isn't,  either.  Listen  to  me.  Suppose  I 
purchase  a  pearl  necklace  in  Rome,  and  pay  five- 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE          281 

thousand  for  it.  Uncle  Sam  will  boost  up  the 
value  more  than  one-half.  And  what  for?  To 
protect  infant  industries?  Bally  rot!  We  don't 
make  pearls  in  the  States;  our  oysters  aren't  edu- 
cated up  to  it."  His  flippancy  found  no  response 
in  her.  "Well,  suppose  I  get  that  necklace  through 
the  customs  without  paying  the  duty.  I  make 
twenty-five  hundred  or  so.  And  nobody  is  hurt. 
That's  all  your  mother  does." 

"It  is  stealing,"  she  reiterated. 

How  wan  she  looked!  thought  George. 

"How  can  you  make  that  stealing?"  Ryanne  was 
provoked. 

"The  law  puts  a  duty  upon  such  things;  if  you 
do  not  pay  it,  you  steal.  Oh,  Horace,  don't  waste 
your  time  in  specious  arguments."  She  made  a 
gesture,  weariness  personified.  "It  is  stealing;  all 
the  arguments  in  the  world  can  not  change  it  into 
anything  else.  And  how  about  my  uncle  who 
fleeces  the  lambs  at  cards,  and  how  about  my 
mother  who  knows  and  permits  it?" 

Ryanne  had  no  plausible  argument  to  offer 
against  these  queries. 

"Is  not  my  uncle  a  thief,  and  is  not  my  mother 


282   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

an  abettor?  I  do  not  know  of  anything  so  vile." 
Her  figure  grew  less  erect.  To  George's  eyes, 
dimmed  by  the  reflecting  misery  in  hers,  she 
drooped,  as  a  flower  exposed  to  sudden  cold.  "I 
think  the  thief  in  the  night  much  honester  than 
one  who  cheats  at  cards.  A  card-sharp;  did  you 
not  call  it  that?  Don't  lie,  Horace;  it  will  only 
make  me  sad." 

"I  shan't  lie  any  more,  Fortune.  All  that  you 
believe  is  true;  and  I  would  to  God  that  it  were 
otherwise.  And  I've  been  a  partner  in  many  of 
their  exploits.  But  not  at  cards,  Fortune;  not  at 
cards.  I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  cheat." 

"Thank  you.  I  should  have  known  some  time, 
and  perhaps  only  half  a  truth.  Now  I  know  all 
there  is  to  know."  She  held  her  hands  out  before 
her  and  studied  them.  "I  shall  never  go  back." 

"Good  Lord!  Fortune,  you  must.  You'd  be  as 
helpless  as  a  babe.  What  could  you  do  without 
money  and  comfort?" 

"I  can  become  a  clerk  in  a  shop.  It  will  be 
honest.  Bread  at  Mentone  would  choke  me;"  and 
she  choked  a  little  then  as  she  spoke. 

"My  dear  Fortune,"  said  Ryanne,  calling  into 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE         283 

life  that  persuasive  sweetness  which  upon  occa- 
sions he  could  put  into  his  tones,  "have  you  ever 
thought  how  beautiful  you  are?  No,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  have.  Some  ancestor  of  your  father's 
has  been  reincarnated  in  you.  You  are  without 
vanity  and  dishonesty;  and  I  have  found  that  these 
usually  go  together.  Well,  at  Mentone  you  had  a 
little  experience  with  men.  You  were  under  pro- 
tection then;  protection  it  was  of  a  sort.  If  you 
go  out  into  the  world  alone,  there  will  be  no  pro- 
tection; and  you  will  find  that  men  are  wolves 
generally,  and  that  the  sport  of  the  chase  is  a 
woman.  Must  I  make  it  plainer?" 

"I  understand,"  her  chin  once  more  resolute. 
"I  shall  become  a  clerk  in  a  shop.  Perhaps  I  can 
teach,  or  become  a  nurse.  Whatever  I  do,  I  shall 
never  go  back  to  Mentone.  And  all  men  are  not 
bad.  You're  not  all  bad  yourself,  Horace;  and 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  believe  I  might  trust 
you  anywhere." 

"And  God  knows  you  could!"  genuinely.  "But 
I  can't  help  you.  If  I  had  a  sister  or  a  woman 
relative,  I  could  send  you  to  her.  But  I  have  no 
one  but  my  brother,  and  he's  a  worse  scoundrel 


I 


284   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

than  I  am.  I  at  least  work  out  in  the  open.  He 
transacts  his  villainies  behind  closed  doors." 

George  listened,  sitting  as  motionless  as  a 
Buddhist  idol.  Why  couldn't  he  think  of  some- 
thing? Why  couldn't  he  come  to  the  aid  of  the 
woman  he  loved  in  this  her  hour  of  trial?  A  fine 
lover,  forsooth !  To  sit  there  like  a  yokel,  stupidly ! 
Could  he  offer  to  lend  her  money?  A  thousand 
times,  no !  And  he  could  not  ask  her  to  marry  him ; 
it  would  not  have  been  fair  to  either.  She  would 
have  misunderstood;  she  would  have  seen  not  love 
but  pity,  and  refused  him.  Neither  she  nor  Ryanne 
suffered  more  in  spirit  than  he  did  at  that  moment. 

"Jones,  for  God's  sake,  wake  up  and  suggest 
something!  You  know  lots  of  decent  people. 
Can't  you  think  of  some  one?" 

But  for  this  call  George  might  have  continued 
to  grope  in  darkness.  Instantly  he  saw  a  way. 
He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  seized  her  by  the  hands, 
boyishly. 

"Fortune,  Ryanne  is  right.  I've  found  a  way. 
Mr.  Mortimer,  the  president  Of  my  firm,  is  an  old 
man,  kindly  and  lovable.  He  and  his  wife  are 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE          285 

childless.  They'll  take  you.  Why,  it's  as  easy 
as  talking." 

She  leaned  back  against  the  drawing  of  his 
hands.  She  was  afraid  that  in  his  eagerness  he 
was  going  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  She  wondered 
why,  of  a  sudden,  she  had  become  so  weak.  Slow- 
ly she  withdrew  her  hands  from  his. 

"I'll  cable  the  moment  we  reach  port,"  he  said, 
as  if  reaching  port  under  the  existing  conditions 
was  a  thing  quite  possible.  "Will  you  go  to  them? 
Why,  they  will  give  you  every  care  in  the  world. 
And  they  will  love  you  as  ...  as  you  ought 
to  be  loved!" 

Ryanne  turned  away  his  head. 

Fortune  was  too  deeply  absorbed  by  her  misery 
to  note  how  near  George  had  come  to  committing 
himself.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Jones;  thank  you.  I 
am  going  to  the  tent.  I  am  tired.  And  I  am  not 
so  brave  as  you  think  I  am." 

"But  will  you?" 

"I  shall  tell  you  when  we  reach  port."  And  with 
that  she  fled  to  the  tent. 

Ryanne  folded  his  arms  and  stared  at  the  sand. 
George  sat  down  and  aimlessly  hunted  for  the 


286   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

stub  of  the  cigar  he  had  dropped;  a  kind  of  reflex 
action. 

The  two  men  were  all  alone.  The  camel-boys 
were  asleep.  Mahomed  had  now  ceased  to  bother 
about  a  guard. 

"I  can't  see  where  she  gets  this  ridiculous  sense 
of  honesty,"  said  Ryanne  gloomily. 

George  leaned  over  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
Ryanne's  knee.  "She  gets  it  the  same  way  I  do, 
Ryanne — from  here,"  touching  his  heart ;  "and  she 
is  right." 

"I  believe  I've  missed  everything  worth  while, 
Percival.  Till  I  met  you  I  always  had  a  sneaking 
idea  that  money  made  a  man  evil.  The  boot  seems 
to  be  upon  the  other  foot." 

"Ryanne,  you  spoke  about  becoming  honest, 
once  you  get  out  of  this.  Did  you  mean  it?" 

"I  did,  and  still  do." 

"It  may  be  that  I  can  give  you  a  lift.  You 
worked  in  your  father's  bank.  You  know  some- 
thing about  figures.  I  own  two  large  fruit-farms 
in  California.  What  do  you  say  to  a  hundred  and 
fifty  a  month  to  start  with,  and  begin  life  over 
again?" 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE         287 

Ryanne  got  up  and  restlessly  paced.  Non- 
chalance had  been  beaten  out  of  him;  the  mercurial 
humor  which  had  once  been  so  pleasant  to  excite, 
which  had  once  given  him  foothold  in  such  mo- 
ments, was  gone.  He  had  only  one  feeling,  a 
keen,  biting,  bitter  shame.  At  length  he  stopped 
in  front  of  George,  who  smiled  and  looked  up 
expectantly. 

"Jones,  when  you  stick  your  finger  into  water 
and  withdraw  it,  what  happens?  Nothing.  Well, 
the  man  who  gives  me  a  benefit  is  sticking  his 
finger  into  water.  I'm  just  as  unstable.  How 
many  promises  have  I  made  and  broken!  I  mean, 
promises  to  myself.  I  don't  know.  This  moment 
I  swear  to  be  good,  and  along  comes  a  pack  of 
cards  or  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  back  I  slip.  Would 
it  be  worth  while  to  trust  a  man  so  damned  weak 
as  that?  Look  at  me.  I  am  six-foot  two,  normal- 
ly a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds,  no  fat.  I  am  as 
sound  as  a  cocoanut.  There  isn't  a  boxer  in  the 
States  I'm  afraid  of.  I  can  ride,  shoot,  fence, 
fight;  there  isn't  a  game  I  can't  take  a  creditable 
hand  in.  So  much  for  that.  There's  the  other 
side.  Morally,  I'm  putty.  When  it's  soft  you  can 


288   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mold  it  any  which  way ;  when  it's  hard,  it  crumbles. 
Will  you  trust  a  man  like  that?" 

"Yes.  Out  there  you'll  be  away  from  tempta- 
tion." 

"Perhaps.  Well,  I  accept.  And  if  one  day  I'm 
;  missing,  think  kindly  of  the  poor  devil  of  an  out- 
cast who  wanted  to  be  good  and  couldn't  be.  I'm 
fagged.  I'm  going  to  turn  in.  Good  night." 

He  picked  up  his  blanket  and  saddle-bags  and 
made  his  bed  a  dozen  yards  away. 

George  set  his  gaze  at  the  fire,  now  falling  in 
places  and  showing  incandescent  holes.  A  month 
ago,  in  the  rut  of  commonplace,  moving  round 
in  the  oiled  grooves  of  mediocrity.  Bang!  like 
a  rocket.  Why,  never  had  those  liars  in  the  smoke- 
rooms  recounted  anything  half  so  wild  and  strange 
as  this  adventure.  Smugglers,  card-sharps,  an 
ancient  rug,  a  caravan  in  the  desert!  He  turned 
his  head  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the 
little  tent.  Love,  too;  love  that  had  put  into  his 
diffident  heart  the  thrill  and  courage  of  a  Bayard. 
Love!  He  saw  her  again  as  she  stepped  down 
from  the  carriage;  in  the  dining-room  at  his  side, 
leaning  over  the  parapet;  ineffably  sweet,  haunt- 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE          289 

ingly  sad.  Would  she  accept  the  refuge  he  had 
offered?  He  knew  that  old  Mortimer  would  take 
her  without  question.  Would  she  accept  the 
shelter  of  that  kindly  roof?  She  must!  If  she 
refused  and  went  her  own  way  into  the  world,  he 
would  lose  her  for  ever.  She  must  accept!  He 
would  plead  with  all  the  eloquence  of  his  soul,  for 
his  own  happiness,  and  mayhap  hers.  He  rose, 
faced  the  tent,  and,  with  a  gesture  not  unlike  that 
of  the  pagan  in  prayer,  registered  a  vow  that  never 
should  she  want  for  protection,  never  should  she 
want  for  the  comforts  of  life.  How  he  was  going 
to  keep  such  a  vow  was  a  question  that  did  not 
enter  his  head.  Somehow  he  was  going  to  accom- 
plish the  feat. 

What  mattered  the  ragged  beard  upon  his  face, 
the  ragged  clothes  upon  his  body,  the  tattered 
cloths  upon  his  feet,  the  grotesque  attitude  and 
ensemble?  The  Lord  of  Life  saw  into  his  heart 
and  understood.  And  who  might  say  with  what 
joy  Pandora  gazed  upon  this  her  work,  knowing 
as  she  did  what  still  remained  within  her  casket? 

From  these  heights,  good  occasionally  for  any 
man's  soul,  George  came  down  abruptly  and 


29o   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

humanly  to  the  prosaic  question  of  where  would 
he  make  his  bed  that  night?  To  lie  down  at  the 
north  side  of  the  fire  meant  a  chill  in  the  morning; 
the  south  side,  the  intermittent,  acrid  breath  of 
the  fire  itself;  so  he  threw  down  his  blanket  and 
bags  east  of  the  fire,  wrapped  himself  up,  and  sank 
into  slumber,  light  but  dreamless. 

What  was  that?  He  sat  up,  alert,  straining  his 
ears.  How  long  had  he  been  asleep?  An  hour 
by  his  watch.  What  had  awakened  him?  Not  a 
sound  anywhere,  yet  something  had  startled  him 
out  of  his  sleep.  He  glanced  over  the  camp.  That 
bundle  was  Ryanne.  He  waited.  Not  a  move- 
ment there.  No  sign  of  life  among  the  camel- 
boys;  and  the  flaps  of  the  two  tents  were  closed. 
Bah!  Nerves,  probably;  and  he  would  have  lain 
down  again  had  his  gaze  not  roved  out  toward 
the  desert.  Something  moved  out  there,  upon  the 
misty,  moonlit  space.  He  shaded  his  eyes  from 
the  fire,  now  but  a  heap  of  glowing  embers.  He 
got  up,  and  shiver  after  shiver  wrinkled  his  spine. 
Oh,  no;  it  could  not  be  a  dream;  he  was  awake. 
It  was  a  living  thing,  that  long,  bobbing  camel- 
train,  coming  directly  toward  the  oasis,  no  doubt 

/ 
m 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE         291 

attracted  by  the  firelight.  Fascinated,  incapable 
of  movement,  he  watched  the  approach.  Three 
white  dots;  and  these  grew  and  grew  and  at  length 
became  .  .  .  pith-helmets!  Pith-helmets!  Who 
but  white  men  wore  pith-helmets  in  the  desert? 
White  men!  The  temporary  paralysis  left  him. 
Crouching,  he  ran  over  to  Ryanne  and  shook  him. 

"What     ..." 

But  George  smothered  the  question  with  his 
hand.  "Hush!  For  God's  sake,  make  no  noise! 
Get  up  and  stand  guard  over  Fortune's  tent. 
There's  a  caravan  outside,  and  I'm  going  out  to 
meet  it.  Ryanne,  Ryanne,  there's  a  white  man 
out  there!" 

George  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  toward  the  in- 
coming caravan.  He  met  it  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  away.  The  broken  line  of  camels  bobbed  up 
and  down  oddly. 

"Are  you  white  men?"  he  called. 

"Yes,"  said  a  deep,  resonant  voice.  "And  stop 
where  you  are;  there's  no  hurry." 

"Thank  God!"  cried  George,  at  the  verge  of  a 
breakdown. 

"What  the  devil     .     .     .     Flanagan,  here's  a 


292   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

white  man  in  a  dress-suit!  God  save  us!"  The 
speaker  laughed. 

"Yes,  a  white  man;  and  there's  a  white  woman 
in  the  camp  back  there,  a  white  woman!  Great 
God,  don't  you  understand?  A  white  woman!" 
George  clutched  the  man  by  the  foot  desperately. 
"A  white  woman!" 

The  man  kicked  George's  hand  away  and  slashed 
at  his  camel.  "Flanagan,  and  you,  Williams,  get 
your  guns  in  shape.  This  doesn't  look  good  to 
me,  twenty  miles  from  the  main  gamelieh.  I  told 
you  it  was  odd,  that  fire.  Lively,  now!" 

George  ran  after  them,  staggering.  Twice  he 
fell  headlong.  But  he  laughed  as  he  got  up;  and 
it  wasn't  exactly  human  laughter,  either.  When 
he  reached  camp  he  saw  Mahomed  and  the  three 
strangers,  the  latter  with  their  rifles  held  mena- 
cingly. Fortune  stood  before  the  flap  of  her  tent, 
bewildered  at  the  turn  in  their  affairs.  Behind 
the  leader  of  the  new-comers  was  Ryanne,  and  he 
was  talking  rapidly. 

"Well,"  the  leader  demanded  of  Mahomed, 
"what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"Nothing!" 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE         29$ 

"Take  care!  It  wouldn't  come  hard  to  put  a 
bullet  into  your  ugly  hide.  You  can't  abduct 
white  women  these  days,  you  beggar!  Well,  what 
have  you  to  say?" 

Mahomed  folded  his  arms;  his  expression  was 
calm  and  unafraid.  But  down  in  his  heart  the  fires 
of  hell  were  raging.  If  only  he  had  brought  his 
rifle  from  the  tent;  even  a  knife;  and  one  mad 
moment  if  he  died  for  it!  And  he  had  been  gentle 
to  the  girl;  he  had  withheld  the  lash  from  the 
men;  he  had  not  put  into  action  a  single  plan 
arranged  for  their  misery  and  humiliation!  Truly 
his  blood  had  turned  to  water,  and  he  was  worthy 
of  death.  The  white  man,  always  and  ever  the 
white  man  won  in  the  end.  To  have  come  this 
far,  and  then  to  be  cheated  out  of  his  revenge  by 
chance!  Kismet!  There  was  but  one  thing  left 
for  him  to  do,  and  he  did  it.  He  spoke  hurriedly 
to  his  head-boy.  The  boy  without  hesitation 
obeyed  him.  He  ran  to  the  racing-camel,  applied 
a  kick,  flung  on  the  saddle-bags,  stuffed  dates  and 
dried  fish  and  two  water-bottles  into  them,  and 
waited.  Mahomed  walked  over  to  the  animal  and 
mounted. 


>4   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Stop!"  The  white  man  leveled  his  rifle.  "Get 
down  from  there!" 

Mahomed,  as  if  he  had  not  heard,  kicked  the 
camel  with  his  heels.  The  beast  lurched  to  its  feet 
resentfully.  Mahomed  picked  up  the  guiding-rope 
which  served  as  a  bridle,  and  struck  the  camel 
across  the  neck. 

Click!  went  the  hammer  of  the  rifle,  and  Ma- 
homed was  at  that  moment  very  near  death.  He 
gave  no  heed. 

"No,  no!"  cried  Fortune,  pushing  up  the  barrel. 
"Let  him  go.  He  was  kind  to  me,  after  his 
fashion." 

Mahomed  smiled.  He  had  expected  this,  and 
that  was  why  he  had  gone  about  the  business 
unconcernedly. 

"What  do  you  say?"  demanded  the  stranger  of 
Ryanne. 

Ryanne,  having  no  love  whatever  for  Mahomed, 
shrugged. 

"Humph!    And  you?"  to  George. 

"Oh,  let  him  go." 

"All  right.  Two  to  one.  Off  with  you,  then," 
to  Mahomed.  "But  wait!  What  about  these 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE         29^ 

beggars  of  yours?  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
them?" 

"They  have  been  paid.    They  can  go  back." 

The  moment  the  camel  felt  the  sand  under  his 
pads,  he  struck  his  gait  eastward.  And  when  the 
mists  and  shadows  crept  in  behind  him  and  his 
rider,  that  was  the  last  any  of  them  ever  saw  of 
Mahomed-El-Gebel,  keeper  of  the  Holy  Yhiordes 
in  the  Pasha's  palace  at  Bagdad. 

"Now  then,"  said  the  leader  of  the  strange 
caravan,  "my  name  is  Ackermann,  and  mine  is  a 
carpet-caravan,  in  from  Khuzistan,  bound  for 
Smyrna.  How  may  I  help  you?" 

"Take  us  as  far  as  Damascus,"  answered 
Ryanne.  "We  can  get  on  from  there  well 
enough." 

"What's  your  name?"  directly. 

"Ryanne." 

"And  yours?" 

"Fortune  Chedsoye." 

"Next?" 

"Jones." 

The  humorous  bruskness  put  a  kind  of  spirit 
into  them  all,  and  they  answered  smilingly. 


*>6   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Ryanne  and  Jones  are  familiar  enough,  but 
Chedsoye  is  a  new  one.  Here,  you!"  whirling  sud- 
denly upon  the  boys  who  were  pressing  about.  He 
volleyed  some  Arabic  at  them,  and  they  dropped 
back.  "Well,  I've  heard  some  strange  yarns  my- 
self in  my  time,  but  this  one  beats  them  all. 
Shanghaied  from  Cairo!  Humph!  If  some  one  had 
told  me  this,  anywhere  else  but  here,  I'd  have 
called  him  a  liar.  And  you,  Mr.  Ryanne,  went 
into  Bagdad  alone  and  got  away  with  that 
Yhiordes!  It  must  have  been  the  devil's  own  of 
a  job." 

"It  was/'  replied  Ryanne  laconically.  He  did 
not  know  this  man  Ackermann;  he  had  never 
heard  of  him;  but  he  recognized  a  born  leader  of 
men  when  he  saw  him.  Gray-haired,  lean,  bearded, 
sharp  of  word,  quick  of  action,  rude;  he  saw  in 
this  carpet-hunter  the  same  indomitable  qualities 
of  the  ivory-seeker.  "You  did  not  stop  at  Bag- 
dad?" he  asked,  after  the  swift  inventory. 

"No.  I  came  direct.  I  always  do,"  grimly. 
"Better  turn  in  and  sleep;  we'll  be  on  the  way  at 
dawn,  sharp." 

"Sleep?"  Ryanne  laughed. 


297 

"Sleep?"  echoed  George- 
Fortune  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  an  hour  to  let  the  reaction  wear  away," 
said  Ackermann.  "But  you've  got  to  sleep.  I'm 
boss  now,  and  you  won't  find  me  an  easy  one," 
with  a  humorous  glance  at  the  girl. 

"We  are  all  very  happy  to  be  bossed  by  you," 
she  said. 

"Twenty  days,"  Ackermann  mused.  "You're  a 
plucky  young  woman.  No  hysterics?" 

"Not  even  a  sigh  of  discontent,"  put  in  George. 
"If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  pluck,  we'd  have  gone 
to  pieces  just  from  worry.  Are  you  Henry  Acker- 
mann, of  the  Oriental  Company  in  Smyrna?" 

"Yes;  why?" 

"I'm  George  P.  A.  Jones,  of  Mortimer  & 
Jones,  New  York.  I've  heard  of  you;  and  God 
bless  you  for  this  night's  work!" 

"Mortimer  &  Jones?  You  don't  say!  Well, 
if  this  doesn't  beat  the  Dutch!  Why,  if  you're 
Robert  E.  Jones's  boy,  I'll  sell  you  every  carpet 
in  the  pack  at  cost."  He  laughed;  and  it  was 
laughter  good  to  hear,  dry  and  harsh  though  it 
was.  "Your  dad  was  a  fine  gentleman,  and  one 


298   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

of  the  best  judges  of  his  time.  You  couldn't  fool 
him  a  knot.  He  wrote  me  when  you  came  into 
this  world  of  sin  and  tribulation.  Didn't  they 
call  you  Percival  Algernon,  or  something  like 
that?" 

"They  did!"    And  George  laughed,  too. 

i 

"You're  a  sight.  Any  one  sick?  Got  a  medi- 
cine-chest aboard." 

"No,  only  banged  up  and  discouraged.  I  say, 
Mr.  Ackermann,  got  an  extra  pipe  or  two  and 
some  'baccy?" 

"Flanagan,  see  what's  in  the  chest." 

Shortly  Flanagan  returned.  He  had  half  a 
dozen  fresh  corn-cob  pipes  and  a  thick  bag  of 
tobacco.  George  and  Ryanne  lighted  up,  about 
as  near  contentment  as  two  men  in  their  condi- 
tion could  possibly  be. 

Said  Flanagan  to  Fortune:    "Do  you  chew?" 

Fortune  looked  horrified. 

"Oh,  I  mean  gum!"  roared  Flanagan. 

No,  Fortune  did  not  possess  that  dubious  ac- 
complishment. 

"Mighty  handy  when  you're  thirsty,"  Flanagan 
advised. 


MAHOMED   RIDES   ALONE          299 

They  built  up  the  fire  and  sat  round  it  cosily. 
They  were  all  more  or  less  happy,  #11  except 
Fortune.  So  long  as  she  had  been  a  captive  of 
Mahomed,  she  had  forced  the  thought  from  her 
mind;  but  now  it  came  back  with  a  full  measure 
of  misery.  Never,  never  would  she  return  to  Men- 
tone,  not  even  for  the  things  that  were  rightfully 
hers.  Where  would  she  go  and  what  would  she 
do?  She  was  without  money,  and  the  only  thing 
she  possessed  of  value  was  the  Soudanese  trinket 
Ryanne  had  forced  upon  her  that  day  in  the 
bazaars.  She  heard  the  men  talking  and  laugh- 
ing, but  without  sensing.  No,  she  could  not  ac- 
cept charity.  She  must  fight  out  her  battle  all 
alone.  .  .  .  The  child  of  a  thief:  for  never 
would  her  clear  mind  accept  smuggling  as  other 
than  thieving.  .  .  .  Neither  could  she  accept 
pity;  and  she  stole  a  glance  at  George,  as  he  blew 
clouds  of  smoke  luxuriantly  from  his  mouth  and 
nose,  his  eyes  half  closed  in  ecstasy.  How  little 
it  took  to  comfort  a  man! 

Ryanne  suddenly  lowered  his  pipe  and  smote  his 
thigh.  "Hell!"  he  muttered. 

"What's  up?"  asked  George. 


300   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  want  you  to  look  at  me,  Percival;  I  want  you 
to  take  a  good  look  at  this  thing  I've  been  carry- 
ing round  as  a  head." 

"It  looks  all  right,"  observed  George,  puzzled. 

"Empty  as  a  dried  cocoanut!  I  never  thought 
of  it  till  this  moment.  I  wondered  why  he  was  in 
such  a  hurry  to  get  out.  I've  let  that  copper- 
hided  devil  get  away  with  that  nine  hundred 
pounds  1" 


CHAPTER    XVII 

MRS.   CHEDSOYE  HAS   HER  DOUBTS 

MRS.  CHEDSOYE  retired  to  her  room  early 
that  memorable  December  night.  Her 
brother  could  await  the  return  of  Horace.  She 
hadn't  the  least  doubt  as  to  the  result;  a  green 
young  man  pitted  against  a  seasoned  veteran's 
duplicity.  She  wished  Jones  no  harm  physically; 
in  fact,  she  had  put  down  the  law  against  it.  Still, 
much  depended  upon  chance.  But  for  all  her  con- 
fidence of  the  outcome,  a  quality  of  restlessness 
pervaded  her.  She  tried  to  analyze  it,  ineffectually 
at  first.  Perhaps  she  did  not  look  deep  enough; 
perhaps  she  did  not  care  thoroughly  to  examine 
the  source  of  it.  ^Insistently,  however,  it  recurred; 
and  by  repeated  assaults  it  at  length  conquered 
her.  It  was  the  child. 

301 


302   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Did  she  possess,  after  all,  a  latent  sense  of 
motherhood,  and  was  it  stirring  to  establish 
itself?  She  really  did  not  know.  Was  it  not  fear 
and  doubt  rather  than  motherly  instinct?  She 
paused  in  front  of  the  mirror,  but  the  glass  solved 
only  externals.  She  could  not  see  her  soul  there 
in  the  reflection;  she  saw  only  the  abundant  gifts 
of  nature,  splendid,  double-handed,  prodigal.  And 
in  contemplating  that  reflection,  she  forgot  for  a 
space  what  she  was  seeking.  But  that  child!  From 
whom  did  she  inherit  her  peculiar  ideas  of  life? 
From  some  Puritan  ancestor  of  her  father's;  cer- 
tainly not  from  her  side.  She  had  never  bothered 
her  head  about  Fortune,  save  to  house  and  clothe 
her,  till  the  past  forty-eight  hours.  And  now  it 
was  too  late  to  pick  up  the  thread  she  had  cast 
aside  as  not  worth  considering.  To  no  one  is 
given  perfect  wisdom;  and  she  recognized  the  flaw 
in  hers  that  had  led  her  to  ignore  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  the  girl.  She  had  not  even  made  a  friend 
of  her;  a  mistake,  a  bit  of  stm)idity  absolutely 
foreign  to  her  usual  keenness.  The  child  lacked 
little  of^being  beautiful,  and  in  three  or  four  years 
she  would  be.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  without  jeal- 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     303 

ousy;  she  accepted  beauty  in  all  things  unreserved- 
ly. Possessing  as  she  did  an  incomparable  beauty 
of  her  own,  she  could  well  afford  to  be  generous. 
Perhaps  the  true  cause  of  this  disturbance  lay  in 
the  knowledge  that  there  was  one  thing  her 
daughter  had  inherited  from  her  directly,  almost 
identically;  indeed,  of  this  pattern  the  younger 
possessed  the  wider  margin  of  the  two:  courage. 
Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  afraid  of  nothing  except 
wrinkles,  and  Fortune  was  too  young  to  know 
this  fear.  So  then,  the  mother  slowly  began  to 
comprehend  the  spirit  which  had  given  life  to 
this  singular  perturbation.  Fortune  had  declared 
that  she  would  run  away;  and  she  had  the  courage 
to  carry  out  the  threat. 

Resolutely  Mrs.  Chedsoye  rang  for  her  maid 
Celeste.  Thoughts  like  these  only  served  to  dis- 
turb the  marble  smoothness  of  her  forehead. 

The  two  began  to  pack.  That  is  to  say,  Celeste 
began;  Mrs.  Chedsoye  generally  took  charge  of 
these  manceuvers^rom  the  heights,  as  became  the 
officer  in  command.  Bending  was  likely  to  en- 
large the  vein  in  the  neck;  and  all  those  beautiful 
gowns  would  not  be  worth  a  soldi  without  the 


304   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

added  perfection  of  her  lineless  throat  and  neck. 
She  was  getting  along  in  years,  too,  a  fact  which 
was  assuming  the  proportions  of  a  cross;  and 
more  and  more  she  must  husband  these  lingering 
(not  to  say  beguiling)  evidences  of  youthfulness. 

"We  might  as  well  get  Fortune's  things  out  of 

• 
the  way,  too,  Celeste." 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"And  bring  my  chocolate  at  half  after  eight  in 
the  morning.  It  is  quite  possible  that  we  shall 
sail  to-morrow  night  from  Port  Said.  If  not  from 
there,  from  Alexandria.  It  all  depends  upon  the 
booking,  which  can  not  be  very  heavy  going  west 
this  time  of  year." 

"As  madame  knows!"  came  from  the  depth  of 
the  cavernous  trunk.  Celeste  was  no  longer  sur- 
prised; at  least  she  never  evinced  this  emotion. 
For  twelve  years  now  she  had  gone  from  one  end 
of  the  globe  to  the  other,  upon  the  shortest 
notice.  While  surprise  was  lost  to  her  or  under 
such  control  as  to  render  it  negligible,  she  still 
shivered  with  "pleasurable  excitement  at  the 
thought  of  entering  a  port.  Madame  was  so 
clever,  so  transcendently  clever!  If  she,  Celeste, 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     305 

had  not  been  loyal,  she  might  have  retired  long 
ago,  and  owned  a  shop  of  her  own  in  the  busy 
Rue  de  Rivoli.  But  that  would  have  meant  a 
humdrum  existence;  and  besides,  she  would  have 
grown  fat,  which,  of  the  seven  horrors  confront- 
ing woman,  so  macjame  said,  was  first  in  number. 

"Be  very  careful  how  you  handle  that  blue  ball- 
gown." 

"Oh,  Madame!"  reproachfully. 

"It  is  the  silver  braid.  Do  not  oress  the  rosettes 
too  harshly." 

Celeste  looked  up.  Mrs.  Chedsoye  answered  her 
inquiring  gaze  with  a  thin  smile. 

"You  are  wonderful,  Madame!" 

"And  so  are  you,  Celeste,  in  your  way." 

At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Chedsoye  was  ready  for 
her  pillow.  She  slept  fitfully;  awoke  at  eleven  and 
again  at  twelve.  After  that  she  knew  nothing 
more  till  the  maid  roused  her  with  the  cup  of 
chocolate.  She  sat  up  and  sipped  slowly.  Celeste 
waited  at  the  bedside  with  the  tray.  Her  admira- 
tion for  her  mistress  never  waned.  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
was  just  as  beautiful  in  dishabille  as  in  a  ball- 
gown. She  drained  the  cup,  and  as  she  turned  to 


306   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

replace  it  upon  the  tray,  dropped  it  with  a  clatter, 
a  startled  cry  coming  from  her  lips. 

"Madame?" 

"Fortune's  bed!" 

It  had  not  been  slept  in.  The  steamer-cloak 
lay  across  the  counterpane  exactly  where  Celeste 
herself  had  laid  it  the  night  before.  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  sprang  out  of  her  bed  and  ran  barefoot  to  the 
other.  Fortune  had  not  been  in  the  room  since 
dinner-time. 

"Celeste,  dress  me  as  quickly  as  possible.  Hurry ! 
Something  has  happened  to  Fortune." 

Never,  in  all  her  years  of  service,  could  she 
recollect  such  a  toilet  as  madame  made  that  morn- 
ing. And  never  before  had  she  shown  such  con- 
cern over  her  daughter.  It  was  amazing! 

"The  little  fool!  The  little  fool!"  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  repeatedly  murmured  as  the  nimble  fingers 
of  the  maid  flew  over  her.  "The  silly  little  fool; 
and  at  a  time  like  this!"  Not  that  remorse  of 
any  kind  stirred  Mrs.  Chedsoye's  conscience;  she 
was  simply  extremely  annoyed. 

She  hastened  out  into  the  corridor  and  knocked 
at  the  door  of  her  brother's  room.  No  answer. 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     307 

She  flew  down-stairs,  and  there  she  saw  him  com- 
ing in  from  the  street.  He  greeted  her  cheerily. 

"It's  all  right,  Kate;  plenty  of  room  on  the 
Ludwig.  We  shall  take  the  afternoon  train  for 
Port  Said.  She  sails  at  dawn  to-morrow  instead 
of  to-night.  .  .  .  What's  up?"  suddenly  not- 
ing his  sister's  face. 

"Fortune  did  not  return  to  her  room  last 
night." 

"What?  Where  do  you  suppose  the  little  fool 
went,  then?" 

They  both  seemed  to  look  upon  Fortune  as  a 
little  fool. 

"Yesterday  she  threatened  to  run  away." 

"Run  away?    Kate,  be  sensible.    How  the  deuce 

» 

could  she  run  away?  She  hasn't  a  penny.  It  takes 
money  to  go  anywhere  over  here.  She  has  prob- 
ably found  some  girl  friend,  and  has  spent  -  the 
night  with  her.  We'll  soon  find  out  where  she 
is."  The  Major  wasn't  worried. 

"Have  you  seen  Horace?"  with  discernible 
anxiety. 

"No.  I  didn't  wait  up  for  him.  He's  sleeping 
off  a  night  of  it.  You  know  his  failing." 


308   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Find  out  if  he  is  in  his  room.  Go  to  the 
porter's  bureau  and  inquire  for  both  him  and 
Jones." 

The  Major,  perceiving  that  his  sister  was  genu- 
inely alarmed,  rushed  over  to  the  bureau.  No, 
neither  Mr.  Ryanne  nor  Mr.  Jones  had  been  in  the 
hotel  since  yesterday.  Would  the  porter  send 
some  one  up  to  the  rooms  of  those  gentlemen  to 
make  sure?  Certainly.  No;  there  was  no  one  in 
the  rooms.  The  Major  was  now  himself  perturbed. 
He  went  back  to  Mrs.  Chedsoye. 

"Kate,  neither  has  been  in  his  room  since  yester- 
day. If  you  want  my  opinion,  it  is  this:  Hoddy 
has  sequestered  Jones  all  right,  and  is  somewhere 
in  town,  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  a  night  of  it." 

"He  has  run  away  with  Fortune!"  she  cried. 
Her  expression  was  tragic.  She  couldn't  have  told 
whether  it  was  due  to  her  daughter's  disappear- 
ance or  to  Horace's  defection.  "Did  he  not 
threaten?" 

"Sh!  not  so  loud,  Kate." 

"The  little  simpleton  defied  me  yesterday,  and 
declared  she  would  leave  me." 

"Oho!"  The  Major  fingered  his  imperial.  "That 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     309 

puts  a  new  face  to  the  subject.  But  Jones!  He 
has  not  turned  up.  We  can  not  move  till  we  find 
out  what  has  become  of  him.  I  know.  I'll  jump 
into  a  carriage  and  see  if  he  got  as  far  as  the 
English-Bar." 

.Mrs.  Chedsoye  did  not  go  up-stairs,  but  paced 
the  lounging-room,  lithe  and  pantherish.  Fre- 
quently she  paused,  as  if  examining  the  patterns 
in  the  huge  carpets.  She  entered  the  reception- 
room,  came  back,  wandered  off  into  the  ball-room, 
stopped  to  inspect  the  announcement  hanging 
upon  the  bulletin-board,  returned  to  the  windows 
and  watched  the  feluccas  sail  past  as  the  great 
bridge  opened;  and  during  all  these  aimless  occu- 
pations but  a  single  thought  busied  her  mind: 
what  could  a  man  like  Horace  see  in  a  chit  like 
Fortune? 

It  was  an  hour  and  a  half  before  the  Major  put 
in  an  appearance.  He  was  out  of  breath  and 
temper. 

"Come  up  to  the  room."  Once  there,  he  sat 
down  and  bade  her  do  likewise.  "There's  the  devil 
to  pay.  You  heard  Hoddy  speak  of  the  nigger 
who  guarded  the  Holy  Yhiordes,  and  that  he 


310   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

wanted  to  get  out  of  Cairo  before  he  turned  up? 
Well,  he  turned  up.  He  fooled  Hoddy  to  the 
top  of  his  bent.  So  far  as  I  could  learn,  Fortune 
and  Hoddy  and  Jones  are  all  in  the  same  boat, 
kidnapped  by  this  Mahomed,  and  carried  out  into 
the  desert,  headed,  God  knows  where!  Now, 
don't  get  excited.  Take  it  easy.  Luck  is  with 
us,  for  Hoddy  left  all  the  diagrams  with  me.  We 
need  him,  but  not  so  much  that  we  can't  go  on 
without  him.  You  see,  these  Arabs  are  like  the 
Hindus;  touch  anything  that  concerns  their 
religion,  and  they'll  have  your  hair  off.  How 
Fortune  got  into  it  I  can't  imagine,  unless  Ma- 
homed saw  her  with  Hoddy  and  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  were  lovers.  All  this  Ma- 
homed wants  is  the  rug;  and  he  is  going  to 
hold  them  till  he  gets  it.  No  use  notifying  the 
police.  No  one  would  know  where  to  find  him. 
None  of  them  will  come  to  actual  harm.  Any- 
how, the  coast  is  clear.  Kate,  there's  a  big  thing 
in  front.  No  nerves.  We've  got  to  go  to-day. 
Time  is  everything.  Our  butler  and  first  man 
cabled  this  morning  that  they  had  just  started 
in,  and  that  everything  was  running  like  clock- 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     311 

work.  We'll  get  into  New  York  in  time  for  the 
coup.  Remember,  I  was  against  the  whole  busi- 
ness at  the  start,  but  now  I'm  going  to  see  it 
off." 

Feverishly  Mrs.  Chedsoye  prepared  for  the 
journey.  She  was  irritable  to  Celeste,  she  was  un- 
bearable to  her  brother,  who  took  a  seat  in  a 
forward  compartment  to  be  rid  of  her.  It  was 
only  when  they  went  aboard  the  steamer  that 
night  that  she  became  reconciled  to  the  inevi- 
table. At  any  rate,  the  presence  of  Jones  would 
counteract  any  influence  Horace  might  have 
gained  over  Fortune.  That  the  three  of  them 
might  suffer  unheard-of  miseries  never  formed 
thought  in  her  mind.  It  appealed  to  her  in  the 
sense  of  a  comedy  which  annoyed  rather  than 
aroused  her. 

They  were  greeted  effusively  by  Wallace,  he  of 
the  bulbous  nose;  and  his  first  inquiry  was  of 
Ryanne.  Briefly  the  Major  told  him  what  had 
happened  and  added  his  fears.  Wallace  was  great- 
ly cast-down.  Hoddy  had  so  set  his  heart  upon 
this  venture  that  it  was  a  shame  to  proceed  with- 
out him.  He  had  warned  him  at  the  beginning 


312 

about  that  infernal  rug;  but  Hoddy  was  always 
set  in  his  daredevil  schemes.  So  long  as  the 
Major  had  the  plans,  he  supposed  that  they  could 
turn  the  trick  without  Hoddy's  assistance;  only, 
it  seemed  rather  hard  for  him  not  to  be  in  the 
sport. 

"He  told  me  that  nothing  would  give  him 
greater  pleasure  than  to  stick  his  fist  into  the  first 
bag  of  yellow-boys.  There  was  something  mys- 
terious in  the  way  he  used  to  chuckle  over  the 
thing  when  I  first  sprung  it  on  him.  He  saw  a 
joke  somewhere.  Let's  go  into  the  smoke-room 
for  a  peg.  It  won't  hurt  either  of  us.  And  that 
poor  little  girl!  It's  a  hell  of  a  world;  eh?" 

The  Major  admitted  that  it  was;  but  he  did 
not  add  that  Fortune's  welfare  or  ill-fare  was  of 
little  or  no  concern  of  his.  The  little  spitfire  had 
always  openly  despised  him. 

They  were  drinking  silently  and  morosely,  when 
Mrs.  Chedsoye,  pale  and  anxious,  appeared  in  the 
companionway.  She  beckoned  them  to  follow  her 
down  to  her  cabin.  Had  Fortune  arrived?  Had 
Ryanne?  She  did  not  answer.  Arriving  at  her 
cabin  she  pushed  the  two  wondering  men  inside, 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     313 

and  pointed  at  the  floor.  A  large  steamer-roll 
lay  unstrapped,  spread  out. 

"I  only  just  opened  it,"  she  said.  "I  never 
thought  of  looking  into  it  at  Cairo.  Here,  it 
looked  so  bulky  that  I  was  curious." 

"Why,  it's  that  damned  Yhiordes!"  exclaimed 
the  Major  wrathfully.  "What  the  devil  is  it  doing 
in  Fortune's  steamer-roll?" 

"That  is  what  I  should  like  to  know.  If  they 
have  been  kidnapped  in  order  to  recover  the  rug, 
whatever  will  become  of  them?"  And  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  touched  the  rug  with  her  foot,  absently.  She 
was  repeating  in  her  mind  that  childish  appeal: 
"You  don't  know  how  loyal  I  should  have  been!" 

They  took  the  first  sailing  out  of  Naples. 
Twelve  days  later  they  landed  at  the  foot  of  Four- 
teenth Street.  There  was  some  trifling  difficulty 
over  the  rug.  It  had  been  declared;  but  as  Mrs. 
Chedsoye  and  her  brother  always  declared  foreign 
residence,  there  was  a  question  as  to  whether  it 
was  dutiable  or  not.  Being  a  copy,  it  was  not  an 
original  work  of  art,  therefore  not  exempt,  and 
so  forth  and  so  on.  It  was  finally  decided  that 


3  H   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  must  pay  a  duty.  The  Major  paid 
grumblingly,  very  cleverly  assuming  an  irritability 
well  known  to  the  inspectors.  The  way  the  United 
States  Government  mulcted  her  citizens  for  the 
benefit  of  the  few  was  a  scandal  of  the  nations. 

A  smooth-faced  young  man  approached  them 
from  out  the  crowd. 

"Is  this  Major  Callahan?" 

"Yes.    This  must  be  Mr.  Reynolds,  the  agent?" 

"Yes.  Everything  is  ready  for  your  occupancy. 
Your  butler  and  first  man  have  everything  ship- 
shape. I  could  have  turned  over  to  you  Mr. 
Jones's." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  the  Major.  "They 
would  have  been  strangers  to  us  and  we  to  them. 
Our  own  servants  are  best." 

"You  must  be  very  good  friends  of  my  client?" 

"I  have  known  him  for  years,"  said  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye sweetly.  "It  was  at  his  own  suggestion  that 
we  take  the  house  over  for  the  month.  He  really 
insisted  that  we  should  pay  him  nothing;  but,  of 
course,  such  an  arrangement  could  not  be  thought 
of.  Oh,  good-by,  Mr.  Wallace,"  tolerantly.  "We 
hope  to  see  you  again  some  day." 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     315 

Wallace,  taking  up  his  role  once  more,  tipped 
his  hat  and  rushed  away  for  one  of  his  favorite 
haunts. 

"Bounder!"  growled  the  Major.  "Well,  well; 
a  ship's  deck  is  always  Liberty-Hall." 

"You  have  turned  your  belongings  over  to  an 
expressman?"  asked  the  agent.  These  were 
charming  people;  and  any  doubts  he  might  have 
entertained  were  dissipated.  And  why  should  he 
have  any  doubts?  Jones  was  an  eccentric  young 
chap,  anyhow.  An  explanatory  letter  (written 
by  the  Major  in  Jones's  careless  hand),  backed  up 
by  a  cable,  was  enough  authority  for  any  reason- 
able man. 

"Everything  is  out  of  the  way,"  said  the  Major. 

"Then,  if  you  wish,  I  can  take  you  right  up  to 
the  house  in  my  car.  Your  butler  said  that  he 
would  have  lunch  ready  when  you  arrived." 

"Very  kind  of  you.  How  noisy  New  York  is! 
You  can  take  our  hand-luggage?"  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  would  have  made  St.  Anthony  uneasy  of 
mind;  Reynolds,  young,  alive,  metaphorically  fell 
at  her  feet. 

"Plenty  of  room  for  it." 


316   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  You  see,  Mr.  Jones  in- 
trusted a  fine  old  rug  to  us  to  bring  home  for 
him;  and  I  shouldn't  want  anything  to  happen 
to  it." 

The  Major  looked  up  at  the  roof  of  the  dingy 
shed.  He  did  not  care  to  have  Reynolds  note  the 
flicker  of  admiration  in  his  eyes.  The  cleverest 
woman  of  them  all!  The  positive  touch  to  the 
whole  daredevil  a'ffair!  And  he  would  not  have 
thought  of  it  had  he  lived  to  be  a  thousand.  "One 
might  as  well  disembark  in  a  stable,"  he  said  aloud. 
"Ah!  We  are  ready  to  'go,  then?" 

They  entered  the  limousine  and  went  off  buzzing 
and  zigzagging  among  the  lumbering  trucks.  The 
agent  drove  the  car  himself.  * 

"Where  is  Jones  now?"  he  asked  of  the  Major, 

who  sat  at  his  left.    "Haven't  had  a  line  from  him 

• 

for  a  month." 

"Just  before  we  sailed,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
through  the  window,  over  the  Major's  shoulder, 
"he  went  into  the  desert  for  a  fortnight  or  so; 
with  a  caravan.  He  had  heard  of  some  fabulous 
carpet." 

Touch  number  two.  The  Major  grinned.  "Jones 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     317 

is  one  of  the  best  judges  I  have  ever  met.  He  was 
off  at  a  bound.  I  only  hope  he  will  get  back  be- 
fore we  leave  for  California."  The  Major  drew 
up  his  collar.  It  was  a  cold,  blustery  day. 

The  agent  was  delighted.  What  luck  a  fellow 
like  Jones  had!  To  wander  all  over  creation  and 
to  meet  charming  people!  And  when  they  in- 
vited him  to  remain  for  luncheon,  the  victory  was 
complete. 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  strolled  in  and  out  of  the  beauti- 
fully appointed  rooms.  Never  had  she  seen  more 
excellent  taste.  Not  too  much;  everything  per- 
fectly placed,  one  object  nicely  balanced  against 
another.  Here  was  a  rare  bit  of  Capo  di  Monte, 
there  a  piece  of  Sevres  or  Canton.  Some  houses, 
with  their  treasures,  look  like  museums,  but  this 
one  did  not.  The  owner  had  not  gone  mad  over 
one  subject ;  here  was  a  sane  and  prudent  collector. 
The  great  yellow  Chinese  carpet  represented  a 
fortune;  she  knew  enough  about  carpets  to  realize 
this  fact.  Ivories,  jades,  lapis-lazuli,  the  precious 
woods,  priceless  French  and  Japanese  tapestries, 
some  fine  paintings  and  bronzes;  the  rooms  were 
full  of  unspoken  romance  and  adventure;  echoed 


318   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

with  war  and  tragedy,  too.  And  Fortune  might 
have  married  a  man  like  this  one.  A  possibility 
occurred  to  her,  and  the  ghost  of  a  smile  moder- 
ated the  interest  in  her  face.  They  might  be  upon 
the  desert  for  weeks.  Who  knew  what  might  not 
happen  to  two  such  romantic  simpletons? 

The  butler  and  the  first  man  (who  was  also  the 
cook)  were  impeccable  types  of  servants;  so 
thought  Reynolds.  They  moved  silently  and  an- 
ticipated each  want.  Reynolds  determined  that 
very  afternoon  to  drop  a  line  to  Jones  and  com- 
pliment him  upon  his  good  taste  in  the  selection 
of  his  friends.  A  subsequent  press  of  office  work, 
however,  drove  the  determination  out  of  his  mind. 

The  instant  his  car '"carried  him  out  of  sight, 
a  strange  scene  was  enacted.  The  butler  and  the 
first  man  seized  the  Major  by  the  arms,  and  the 
three  executed  a  kind  of  pas-seul.  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
eyed  these  manifestations  of  joy  stonily. 

"Now  then,  what's  been  done?"  asked  the 
Major,  pulling  down  his  cuffs  and  shaking  the 
wrinkles  from  his  sleeves. 

"Half  done!"  cried  the  butler. 

"Fine!    What  do  you  do  with  the  refuse?" 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     319 

"Cart  it  away  in  an  automobile  every  night, 
after  the  gun  starts  down  the  other  end  of  the 
street." 

"Gun?"     The  Major  did  not  quite  understand. 

"Gun  or  bull;  that's  the  argot  for  policeman." 

"Thieves'  argot,"  said  Mrs.  Chedsoye  con- 
temptuously. 

The  butler  laughed.    He  knew  Gioconda  of  old. 

"Where's  that  wall-safe?"  the  Major  wanted  to 
know. 

"Behind  that  sketch  by  Detaille."  And  the 
butler,  strange  to  say,  pronounced  it  Det-i. 

"Can  you  open  it?" 

"Tried,  but  failed.  Wallace  is  the  man  for 
that." 

"He'll  be  along  in  an  hour  or  so." 

"Where's  Ryanne?" 

"Don't  know;  don't  care."  The  Major  sketched 
the  predicament  of  their  fellow-conspirator. 

The  butler  whistled,  but  callously.  One  more 
or  less  didn't  matter  in  such  an  enterprise. 

When  Wallace  arrived  he  applied  his  talent  and 
acquired  science  to  the  wall-safe,  and  finally  swung 
outward  the  little  steel-door.  The  Major  pushed 


320   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

him  aside  and  thrust  a  hand  into  the  metaled 
cavity,  drawing  out  an  exquisite  Indian  casket  of 
rosewood  and  mother-of-pearl.  He  opened  the 
lid  and  dipped  a  hand  within.  Emeralds,  deep  and 
light  and  shaded,  cut  and  uncut  and  engraved, 
flawed  and  almost  perfect.  He  raised  a  handful 
and  let  them  tinkle  back  into  the  casket.  One 
hundred  in  all,  beauties,  every  one  of  them,  and 
many  famous. 

And  while  he  toyed  with  them,  pleased  as  a  child 
would  have  been  over  a  handful  of  marbles,  Mrs. 
Chedsoye  spread  out  the  ancient  Yhiordes  in  the 
library.  She  stood  upon  the  central  pattern,  mus- 
ing. Her  mood  was  not  one  which  she  had  called 
into  being;  not  often  did  she  become  retrospec- 
tive; the  past  to  her  was  always  like  a  page  in  a 
book,  once  finished,  turned  down.  Her  elbow  in 
one  palm,  her  chin  in  the  other,  she  stared  with- 
out seeing.  It  was  this  house,  this  home,  it  was 
each  sign  of  riches  without  luxury  or  ostentation, 
where  money  expressed  itself  by  taste  and  sim- 
plicity; a  home  such  as  she  had  always  wanted. 
And  why,  with  all  her  beauty  and  intellect,  why 
had  she  not  come  into  possession?  She  knew. 


MRS.  CHEDSOYE  HAS  HER  DOUBTS     321 

Love  that  gives  had  never  been  hers;  hers  had 
been  the  love  that  receives,  self-love.  She  had 
bartered  her  body  once  for  riches  and  had  been 
fooled,  and  she  never  could  do  it  again.  .  .  . 
And  the  child  was  overflowing  with  the  love  that 
gives.  She  couldn't  understand.  The  child  was 
the  essence  of  it ;  and  she,  her  mother,  had  always 
laughed  at  her. 

The  flurry  of  snow  outside  in  the  court  she  saw 
not.  Her  fancy  re-formed  the  pretty  garden  at 
Mentone,  inclosed  by  pink-washed  walls.  Many 
a  morning  from  her  window  she  had  watched 
Fortune  among  the  flowers,  going  from  one  to  the 
other,  like  a  bee  or  a  butterfly.  She  had  watched 
her  grow,  too,  with  that  same  detachment  a  ma- 
chinist feels  as  he  puts  together  the  inven- 
tion of  another  man.  Would  she  ever  see  her 
again?  Her  shoulders  moved  ever  so  little.  Prob- 
ably not.  She  had  blundered  wilfully.  She  should 
have  waited,  thrown  the  two  together,  ma- 
nceuvered.  And  she  had  permitted  this  adven- 
ture to  obsess  her!  She  might  have  stood  within 
this  house  by  right  of  law,  motherhood,  marriage. 
Ryanne  was  in  love  with  Fortune,  and  Jones  by 


322   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

this  time  might  be.     The  desert  was  a  terribly 
lonely  place. 

She  wished  it  might  be  Jones.  And  immediate- 
ly retrospection  died  away  from  her  gaze  and 
actualities  resumed  their  functions.  The  wish  was 
not  without  a  phase  of  humor,  formed  as  it  was 
upon  this  magic  carpet;  but  it  nowise  disturbed 
the  gravity  of  her  expression. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN^T  CARE 

IT  WAS  the  first  of  February  when  Ackermann's 
caravan  drew  into  the  ancient  city  of  Damas- 
cus. That  part  of  the  caravan  deserted  by  Ma- 
homed put  out  for  Cairo  immediately  they 
struck  the  regular  camel-way.  Fortune,  George 
and  Ryanne  were  in  a  pitiable  condition,  heart 
and  body  weary,  in  rags  and  tatters.  George, 
now  that  the  haven  was  assured,  dropped  his 
forced  buoyancy,  his  prattle,  his  jests.  He  had 
done  all  a  mortal  man  co^ld  do  to  keep  up  the 
spirits  of  his  co-unfortunates;  and  he  saw  that, 
most  of  the  time,  he  had  wasted  his  talents. 
Ryanne,  sullen  and  morose,  often  told  him  to 
"shut  up";  which  wasn't  exhilarating.  And  For- 
tune viewed  his  attempts  without  sensing  them 
and  frequently  looked  at  him  without  seeing  him. 

323 


324   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Now,  all  this  was  not  particularly  comforting  to 
the  man  who  loved  her  and  was  doing  what  he 
could  to  lighten  the  dreariness  of  the  journey.  He 
made  allowances,  however;  besides  suffering  un- 
usual privations,  Fortune  had  had  a  frightful  men- 
tal shock.  A  girl  of  her  depth  of  character 
could  not  be  expected  to  rise  immediately  to  the 
old  level.  Sometimes,  while  gathered  about  the 
evening  fire,  he  would  look  up  to  find  her  sad 
eyes  staring  at  him,  and  it  mattered  not  if  he 
stared  in  return;  a  kind  of  clairvoyance  blurred 
visibilities,  for  she  was  generally  looking  into  her 
garden  at  Mentone  and  wondering  when  this 
horrible  dream  would  pass.  Subjects  for  conversa- 
tion were  exhausted  in  no  time.  Dig  as  he  might, 
George  could  find  nothing  new;  and  often  he  re- 
counted the  same  tale  twice  of  an  evening.  Sar- 
donic laughter  from  Kya.nne. 

Ackermann  had  given  them  up  as  hopeless.  He 
was  a  strong,  vain,  domineering  man,  kindly  at 
heart,  however,  but  impatient.  When  he  told  a 
story,  he  demanded  the  attention  of  all;  s<5?  when 
Ryanne  yawned  before  his  eyes,  and  George  drew 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE      325 

pictures  in  the  sand,  and  the  girl  fell  asleep  with 
her  head  upon  her  knees,  he  drew  off  abruptly 
and  left  them  to  their  own  devices.  He  had 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  silences  so  often  that 
he  was  no  longer  capable  of  judging  accurately 
another  man's  mental  processes.  That  they  had 
had  a  strange  and  numbing  experience  he  readily 
understood;  but  now  that  they  were  out  of  duress 
and  headed  for  the  coast,  he  saw  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  act  like  human  beings. 

They  still  put  up  the  small  tent  for  Fortune, 
but  the  rest  of  them  slept  upon  the  sand,  under 
the  stars.  Once,  George  awoke  as  the  dawn  was 
gilding  the  east.  Silhouetted  against  the  sky  he 
saw  Fortune.  She  was  standing  straight,  her 
hands  pressed  at  her  sides,  her  head  tilted  back — 
a  tense  attitude.  He  did  nat  know  it,  but  she  was 
asking  God  why  these  things  should  be.  He  threw 
off  his  blanket  and  ran  to  her. 

"Fortune,  you  mustn't  do  that.  You  will  catch 
cold." 

"I  can  not  sleep,"  she  replied  simply. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the 
tent.  "Try,"  he  said.  Then  he  did  something  he 


326   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

had  never  done  before  to  any  woman  save  his 
mother.  He  kissed  her  hand,  turned  quickly,  and 
went  over  to  his  blanket.  She  remained  motion- 
less before  the  tent.  The  hand  fascinated  her. 
From  the  hand  her  gaze  traveled  to  the  man 
settling  himself  comfortably  under  his  blanket. 
.  .  .  Pity,  pity;  that  was  ever  to  be  her  por- 
tion; pity! 

In  Damascus  the  trio  presented  themselves  at 
the  one  decent  hotel,  and  but  for  Ackermann's 
charges  upon  the  manager,  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
would  have  accepted  them  as  guests;  for  a  more 
suspicious-looking  trio  he  had  never  set  eyes  upon. 
(A  hotel  man  weighs  a  person  by  the  quality  of 
his  clothes.)  Moreover,  they  carried  no  luggage. 
Ackermann  went  sponsor;  and  knowing  something 
of  the  integrity  of  the  rug-hunter,  the  manager 
surrendered.  And  when  George  presented  his 
letter  of  credit  at  the  Imperial  Ottoman  Bank, 
again  it  was  Ackermann  who  vouched  for  him.  It 
had  been  agreed  to  say  nothing  of  the  character 
of  their  adventure.  None  of  them  wanted  to  be 
followed  by  curious  eyes. 

With  a  handful  of  British  gold  in  his  pocket, 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARfi     327 

George  faced  the  future  hopefully.  He  took  his 
companions  in  and  about  town,  hunting  the  shops 
for  clothing,  which  after  various  difficulties  they 
succeeded  in  finding.  It  was  ill-fitting  and  cheap, 
but  it  would  serve  till  they  reached  either  Alex- 
andria or  Naples. 

"How  are  you  fixed?"  asked  Ryanne,  gloomily 
surveying  George's  shoddy  cotton-wool  suit. 

"Cash  in  hand?" 

"Yes." 

"About  four-hundred  pounds.  At  Naples  I  can 
cable.  Do  you  want  any?" 

"Would  you  mind  advancing  me  two  months' 
salary?" 

"Ryanne,  do  you  really  mean  to  stick  to  that 
proposition?" 

"It's  on  my  mind  just  now." 

"Well,  we'll  go  back  to  the  bank  and  I'll  draw 
a  hundred  pounds  for  you.  You  can  pay  your 
own  expenses  as  we  go.  But  what  are  we  going 
to  do  in  regard  to  Fortune?" 

"See  that  she  gets  safely  back  to  Mentone." 

"Suppose  she  will  not  go  there?" 

"It's  up  to  you,  Percival;  it's  all  up  to  you. 


328   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

You're  the  gay  Lochinvar  from  the  west.  I'm 
not  sure — no  one  ever  is  regarding  a  woman — but  I 
think  she'll  listen  to  you.  She  wouldn't  give  an 
ear  to  a  scallawag  like  me.  This  caravan  business 
has  put  me  outside  the  pale.  I've  lost  caste." 

"You're  only  desperate  and  discouraged;  you 
can  pull  up  straight." 

"Much  obliged!" 

"You  haven't  looked  at  life  normally;  that's 
what  the  matter  is." 

"Solon,  you're  right.  There's  that  poor  devil 
back  in  Bagdad.  I've  killed  a  man,  Percival.  It 
doesn't  mix  well  with  my  dreams." 

"You  said  that  it  was  in  self-defense." 

"And  God  knows  it  was.  But  if  I  hadn't  gone 
after  that  damned  rug,  he'd  have  been  alive  to- 
day. Oh,  damn  it  all;  let's  go  back  to  the  hotel 
and  order  that  club-steak,  or  the  best  imitation 
they  have.  I'm  going  to  have  a  pint  of  wine.  I'm 
as  dull  as  a  ditch  in  a  paddy-field." 

"A  bottle  or  two  will  not  hurt  any  of  us.  We'll 
ask  Ackermann.  For  God  knows  where  we'd 
have  been  to-day  but  for  him.  And  let  him  do 
all  the  yarning.  It  will  please  him." 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE      329 

"And  while  he  gabs,  we'll  get  the  best  of  the 
steak  and  the  wine!"  For  the  first  time  in  days 
Ryanne's  laughter  had  a  bit  of  the  erstwhile  rollick- 
ing tone. 

The  dinner  was  an  event.  No  delicacy  (mostly 
canned)  was  overlooked.  The  manager,  as  he 
heard  the  'guineas  jingle  in  George's  pocket,  was 
filled  with  shame;  not  over  his  original  doubts,  but 
relative  to  his  lack  of  perception.  The  tourists 
who  sat  at  the  other  tables  were  scandalized  at 
the  popping  of  champagne-corks.  Sanctimonious 
faces  glared  reproof.  A  jovial  spirit  in  the  Holy 
Land  was  an  anacronism,  not  to  be  tolerated. 
And  wine!  Horrible!  Doubtless,  when  they  re- 
tired to  their  native  back-porches,  they  retold  with 
never-ending  horror  of  having  witnessed  such  a 
scene  and  having  heard  such  laughter  upon  the 
sacred  soil. 

Even  Fortune  laughed,  though  Ryanne's  ear, 
keenest  then,  detected  the  vague  note  of  hysteria. 
If  the  meat  was  tough,  the  potatoes  greasy,  the 
vegetables  flavorless,  the  wine  flat,  none  of  them 
appeared  to  be  aware  of  it.  If  Ackermann  could 
talk  he  could  also  eat;  and  the  clatter  of  forks  and 


330   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

knives  was  the  theme  rather  than  the  variation 
to  the  symphony. 

George  felt  himself  drawn  deeper  and  deeper 
into  those  magic  waters  from  which,  as  in  death, 
there  is  no  return.  She  was  so  lonely,  so  sad  and 
forlorn,  that  there  was  as  much  brother  as  lover 
in  his  sympathy.  How  patient  she  had  been  dur- 
ing all  those  inconceivable  hardships!  How  brave 
and  steady;  and  never  a  murmur!  The  single 
glass  of  wine  had  brought  the  color  back  to  her 
cheek  and  the  sparkle  into  her  eye;  yet  he  was 
sure  that  behind  this  apparent  liveliness  lay  the 
pitiful  desperation  of  the  helpless.  He  had  not 
spoken  again  about  old  Mortimer.  He  would  wait 
till  after  he  had  sent  a  long  cable.  Then  he  would 
speak  and  show  her  the  answer,  of  which  he  had 
not  a  particle  of  doubt.  As  matters  now  stood, 
he  could  not  tell  her  that  he  loved  her;  his  quix- 
otic sense  of  chivalry  was  too  strong  to  per- 
mit this  step,  urge  as  his  heart  might  upon  it. 
She  might  misinterpret  his  love  as  born  of  pity, 
and  that  would  be  the  end  of  everything.  He 
was  confident  now  that  Ryanne  meant  nothing 
to  her.  Her  lack  of  enthusiasm,  whenever  Ryanne 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE     331 

spoke  to  her  in  these  days;  the  peculiar  horizon- 
tality  of  her  lips  and  brows,  whenever  Ryanne 
offered  a  trifling  courtesy — all  pointed  to  distrust. 
George  felt  a  guilty  gladness.  After  all,  why 
shouldn't  she  distrust  Ryanne? 

George  concluded  that  he  must  acquire  pa- 
tience. She  was  far  too  loyal  to  run  away  with- 
out first  giving  him  warning.  In  the  event  of  her 
refusing  Mortimer's  roof  and  protection,  he  knew 
what  his  plans  would  be.  Some  one  else  could 
do  the  buying  for  Mortimer  &  Jones;  his  busi- 
ness would  be  to  revolve  round  this  lonely  girl,  to 
watch  and  guard  her  without  her  being  aware  of 
it.  Of  what  use  were  riches  if  he  could  not  put 
them  to  whatever  use  he  chose?  So  he  would 
wait  near  her,  to  see  that  she  came  and  went 
unmolested,  till  against  that  time  when  she  would 
recognize  how  futile  her  efforts  were  and  how  wide 
and  high  the  wall  of  the  world  was. 

That  mother  of  hers!  To  his  mind  it  was  posi- 
tively unreal  that  one  so  charming  and  lovely 
should  be  at  heart  strong  as  the  wind  and  merci- 
less as  the  sea.  His  mother  had  been  everything; 
hers,  worse  than  none,  an  eternal  question.  What 


332   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

a  drama  she  had  moved  about  in,  without  under- 
standing! 

George  did  not  possess  that  easy  and  adjustable 
sophistry  which  made  Ryanne  look  upon  smug- 
gling as  a  clever  game  between  two  cheats.  His 
point  of  view  coincided  with  Fortune's;  it  was 
thievery,  more  or  less  condoned,  but  the  ethics 
covering  it  were  soundly  established.  He  had 
come  very  near  being  culpable  himself.  True,  he 
would  not  have  been  guilty  of  smuggling  for 
profit;  but  none  the  less  he  would  have  tried  to 
cheat  the  government.  His  sin  had  found  him 
out;  he  had  now  neither  the  rug  nor  his  thousand 
pounds. 

All  these  cogitations  passed  through  his  mind, 
disjointedly,  as  the  dinner  progressed  toward  its 
end.  They  bade  Ackermann  good-by  and  God- 
speed, as  he  was  to  leave  early  for  Beirut,  upon 
his  way  to  Smyrna.  Fortune  went  to  bed;  Ryanne 
sought  the  billiard-room  and  knocked  about  the 
balls;  while  George  asked  the  manager  if  he  could 
send  a  cable  from  the  hotel.  Certainly  he  could. 
It  took  some  time  to  compose  the  cable  to  Morti- 
mer; and  it  required  some  gold  besides.  Mortimer 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE      333 

must  have  a  fair  view  of  the  case;  and  George 
presented  it,  requesting  a  reply  to  be  sent  to 
Cook's  in  Naples,  where  they  expected  to  be 
within  ten  days. 

"How  much  will  this  be?" 

The  porter  got  out  his  telegraph-book  and 
studied  the  rates  carefully. 

"Twelve  pounds  and  six,  sir." 

The  porter  greeted  each  sovereign  with  a  genu- 
flection, the  lowest  being  the  twelfth.  George 
pocketed  the  receipt  and  went  in  search  of 
Ryanne. 

But  that  gentleman  was  no  longer  in  the 
billiard-room.  Indeed,  he  had  gone  quietly  to  the 
other  hotel  and  written  a  cable  himself,  the  code 
of  which  was  not  to  be  found  in  any  book.  For 
a  long  time  he  seemed  to  be  in  doubt,  for  he  folded 
and  refolded  his  message  half  a  dozen  times  before 
his  actions  became  decisive.  He  tore  it  up  and 
threw  the  scraps  upon  the  floor  and  hastened  into 
the  street,  as  if  away  from  temptation.  He  walked 
fast  and  indirectly,  smoking  innumerable  cigar- 
ettes. He  was  fighting,  and  fighting  hard,  the 
evil  in  him  against  the  good,  the  chances  of  the 


334   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

future  against  the  irreclaimable  past.  At  the  end 
of  an  hour  he  returned  to  the  strange  hotel.  His 
lips  were  puffed  and  bleeding.  He  had  smoked 
so  many  cigarettes  and  had  pulled  them  so  im- 
patiently from  his  mouth,  that  the  dry  paper  had 
cracked  the  delicate  skin. 

He  rewrote  his  cable  and  paid  for  the  sending  of 
it.  Then  he  poked  about  the  unfamiliar  corridors 
till  he  found  the  dingy  bar.  He  sat  down  before 
a  peg  of  whisky,  which  was  followed  by  many 
more,  each  a  bit  stiffer  than  its  predecessor.  At 
last,  when  he  had  had  enough  to  put  a  normal 
man's  head  upon  the  table  or  to  cover  his  face 
with  the  mask  of  inanity,  Ryanne  fell  into  the  old 
habit  of  talking  aloud. 

"Horace,  old  top,  what's  the  use?  We'd  just 
like  to  be  good  if  we  could;  eh?  But  they  won't 
let  us.  We'd  grow  raving  mad  in  a  monastery. 
We  were  honest  at  the  time,  but  we  couldn't  stand 
the  monotony  of  watching  green  olives  turn  purple 
upon  the  silvery  bough.  Nay,  nay!" 

He  pushed  the  glass  away  from  him  and  studied 
the  air-bubbles  as  they  formed,  rose  to  the  surface, 
and  were  dissipated. 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  CARE     335 

"No  matter  what  the  game  has  been,  somehow 
or  other,  they've  bashed  us,  and  we've  lost  out." 

He  emptied  the  glass  and  ordered  another.  He 
and  the  bartender  were  alone. 

"After  all,  love  is  like  money.  It's  better  to 
live  frugally  upon  the  interest  than  to  squander 
the  capital  and  go  bankrupt.  And  who  cares,  any- 
how?" 

He  drank  once  more,  dropped  a  half-sovereign 
upon  the  table,  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  His 
eyes  were  bloodshot  now,  and  the  brown  of  his 
skin  had  become  a  slaty  tint;  but  he  walked 
steadily  enough  into  the  reading-room,  where  he 
wrote  a  short  letter.  It  was  not  without  a  per- 
verted sense  of  humor,  for  a  smile  twisted  his  lips 
till  he  had  sealed  the  letter  and  addressed  the 
envelope  to  George  Percival  Algernon  Jones.  He 
stuffed  it  into  a  pocket  and  went  out  whistling 
The  Heavy  Dragoons  from  the  opera  Patience. 

Before  the  lighted  window  of  a  shop  he  paused. 
He  swayed  a  little.  From  a  pocket  of  his  new 
coat  he  pulled  out  a  glove.  It  was  gray  and  small 
and  much  wrinkled.  From  time  to  time  he  drew 
it  through  his  fingers,  staring  the  while  at  the 


336   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

tawdry  trinkets  in  the  shop-window.  Finally  he 
looked  down  at  the  token.  He  became  very  still. 
A  moment  passed;  then  he  flung  the  glove  into 
the  gutter,  and  proceeded  to  his  own  hotel.  He 
left  the  letter  with  the  porter,  paid  his  bill,  and 
went  out  again  into  the  dark,  chill  night. 

He  was  now  what  he  had  been  two  months  ago, 
the  man  who  didn't  care. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

FORTUNE    DECIDES 

GEORGE  and  Fortune  were  seated  at  break- 
fast. It  was  early  morning.  At  ten  they 
were  to  depart  for  Jaffa,  to  take  the  tubby  French 
packet  there  to  Alexandria.  They  could  just 
about  make  it,  and  any  delay  meant  a  week  or  ten 
days  longer  upon  this  ragged  and  inhospitable 
coast. 

"Ryanne  has  probably  overslept.  After  break- 
fast I'll  go  up  and  rout  him  out.  The  one  thing 
that  really  tickles  me,"  George  continued,  as  he 
pared  the  tough  rind  from  the  skinny  bacon,  "is, 
we  shan't  have  any  luggage.  Think  of  the  bless- 
ing of  traveling  without  a  trunk  or  a  valise  or 
a  steamer-roll!" 

"Without  even  a  comb  or  a  hairbrush!" 
337 


338   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"It's  great  fun."     George  broke  his  toast. 

And  Fortune  wondered  how  she  should  tell  him. 
She  was  without  any  toilet  articles.  She  hadn't 
even  a  tooth-brush;  and  it  was  quite  out  of  the 
question  for  her  to  bother  him  about  such  trifles, 
much  as  she  needed  them.  She  would  have  to 
live  in  the  clothes  she  wore,  and  trust  that  the 
ship's  stewardess  might  help  her  out  in  the  abso- 
lute necessities. 

Here  the  head-waiter  brought  George  a  letter. 
The  address  was  enough  for  George.  No  one  but 
Ryanne  could  have  written  it.  Without  excus- 
ing himself,  he  ripped  off  the  envelope  and  read 
the  contents.  Fortune  could  not  resist  watching 
him,  for  she  grasped  quickly  that  only  Ryanne 
could  have  written  a  letter  here  in  Damascus.  At 
first  the  tan  upon  George's  cheeks  darkened — the 
sudden  suffusion  of  blood;  then  it  became  lighter, 
and  the  mouth  and  eyes  and  nose  became  stern. 

"Is  it  bad  news?" 

"It  all  depends  upon  how  you  look  at  it.  For 
my  part,  good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish.  Here, 
read  it  yourself." 

She  read: 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  339 

"My  DEAR  PERCIVAL  : 

"After  all,  I  find  that  I  can  not  reconcile  my- 
self to  the  dullness  of  your  olive-groves.  I  shall 
send  the  five-hundred  to  you  when  I  reach  New 
York.  With  me  it  is  as  it  was  with  the  devil. 
When  he  was  sick,  he  vowed  he  would  be  a  saint; 
but  when  he  got  well,  devil  a  saint  was  he.  There 
used  to  be  a  rhyme  about  it,  but  I  have  forgotten 
that.  Anyhow,  there  you  are.  I  feel  that  I  am 
conceding  a  point  in  regard  to  the  money.  It  is 
contrary  to  the  laws  and  by-laws  of  the  United 
Romance  and  Adventure  Company  to  refund.  Still, 
I  intend  to  hold  myself  to  it. 

"With  hale  affection, 

"RYANNE." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  demanded 
George  hotly.  "I  never  did  a  good  action  in  my 
life  that  wasn't  served  ill.  I'm  a  soft  duffer,  if 
there  ever  was  one." 

"I  shall  never  be  ungrateful  for  your  kindness 
to  me." 

"Oh,  hang  it!  You're  different;  you're  not  like 
any  other  woman  in  the  world,"  he  blurted;  and 
immediately  was  seized  with  a  mild  species  of 
fright. 


340   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

Fortune  stirred  her  coffee  and  delicately  scooped 
up  the  swirling-  circles  of  foam. 

"Old  maids  call  that  money,"  he  said  under- 
standingly,  eager  to  cover  up  his  boldness.  "My 
mother  used  to  tell  me  that  there  were  lots  of 
wonders  in  a  tea-cup." 

"Tell  me  about  your  mother." 

To  him  it  was  a  theme  never  lacking  in  new 
expressions.  When  he  spoke  of  his  mother,  it 
altered  the  clear  and  boyish  note  in  his  voice;  it 
became  subdued,  reverent.  He  would  never  be 
aught  than  guileless;  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to 
divine  anything  save  his  own  impulses.  While 
he  thought  he  was  pleasing  her,  each  tender  recol- 
lection, each  praise,  was  in  fact  a  nail  added  to  her 
crucifixion,  self-imposed.  However,  she  never 
lowered  her  eyes,  but  kept  them  bravely  directed 
into  his.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  his  panegyrics  he 
caught  sight  of  his  watch  which  he  had  placed  at 
the  side  of  his  plate. 

"By  Jove!  quarter  to  nine.  I've  got  an  errand 
or  two  to  do,  and  there's  no  need  of  your  running 
your  feet  off  on  my  account.  I'll  be  back  quarter 
after."  He  dug  into  his  pocket  and  counted  out 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  341 

fifty  pounds  in  paper  and  gold.  "You  keep  this 
till  I  get  back." 

She  pushed  it  aside,  half  rising  from  her  chair. 

"Fortune,  listen.  Hereafter  I  am  George,  your 
brother  George;  and  I  do  not  want  you  ever  to 
question  any  action  of  mine.  I  am  leaving  this 
money  in  case  some  accident  befell  me.  You  never 
can  tell."  He  took  her  hand  and  firmly  pressed 
it  down  upon  the  money.  "In  half  an  hour,  sister, 
I'll  be  back.  You  did  not  think  that  I  was  going 
to  run  away?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  understand  me  now?" 

"Yes." 

While  he  was  gone  she  remained  seated  at  the 
table.  She  made  little  pyramids  of  the  gold, 
divided  the  even  dates  from  the  odd,  arranged 

Maltese  crosses  and  circles  and  stars 

Pity,  pity!  Well,  why  should  she  rebel  against  it? 
Was  it  not  more  than  she  had  had  hitherto?  What 
should  she  do?  She  closed  her  eyes.  She  would 
trouble  her  tired  brain  no  more  about  the  future 
till  they  reached  Naples.  She  would  let  this  one 
week  drift  her  how  it  would. 


342   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

George  came  in  under  the  time-limit  of  his  ad- 
venture. He  had  been  upon  the  most  difficult 
errand  imaginable,  at  least  from  a  bachelor's  point 
of  view.  He  carried  two  hand-bags.  One  of  these 
he  deposited  in  Fortune's  lap. 

"Shall  I  open  it?" 

"If  you  wish." 

She  noted  his  embarrassment,  and  her  imme- 
diate curiosity  was  not  to  be  denied.  She  slipped 
the  catch  and  looked  inside.  There  were  combs 
and  brushes,  soap  and  tooth-powder  and  talc,  a 
manicure-set,  a  pair  of  soft  woolen  slippers,  and 
.  .  .  She  glanced  up  quickly.  The  faintest 
rose  stole  under  her  cheeks.  It  was  droll;  it  was 
pathetically  funny.  She  would  have  given  worlds 
to  have  seen  him  making  the  purchases. 

"You  are  not  offended?"  he  stammered. 

"Why  should  I  be?  I  am  human;  I  have  slept 
and  lived  for  days  in  a  dress,  and  worn  my  hair 
down  my  back  for  lack  of  hair-pins  and  combs.  I 
am  sure  that  it  is  a  very  nice  nightgown." 

Laughter  overcame  her.  He  laughed,  too;  not 
because  the  situation  appealed  to  him  as  laughable, 
but  because  there  was  something,  an  indefinable 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  343 

something,  in  that  laughter  of  hers  that  made  him 
wonderfully  happy. 

"Mr.  Jones     ..." 

"George,"  he  interrupted  determinedly. 

"Brother  George,  it  was  very  kind  and  thought- 
ful of  you.  Not  one  man  in  a  thousand  would 
have  thought  of — of  .  .  .  hair-pins!"  More 
laughter. 

"I  didn't  think  of  them;  it  was  the  clerk." 

"He     ..." 

"She." 

"Well,  then,  she  will  achieve  great  things," 
lightly,  though  her  heart  was  full. 

Tactfully  he  reached  over  and  swept  up  the 
money. 

"Shall  I  ever  be  able  to  repay  you?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  by  letting  me  be  your  brother;  by  not 
deciding  the  future  till  we  land  in  Naples;  by  let- 
ting me  keep  in  touch  with  you,  whatever  your 
ultimate  decision  may  be.  That  isn't  much.  Will 
you  promise  that?" 

"Yes." 

They  spoke  no  more  of  Ryanne.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  dropped  out  of  their  lives  com- 


344   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

pletely.  To  a  certain  extent  he  had.  They  were  to 
meet  him  once  again,  however,  in  the  last  act  of 
this  whimsical  drama,  which  had  drawn  them  both 
out  of  the  commonplace  and  dropped  them  for  a 
full  spin  upon  the  whirligig  of  life. 

In  due  time  they  arrived  at  Alexandria.  There 
they  found  the  great  transatlantic  liner,  home- 
ward bound. 

Ryanne  would  beat  them  into  New  York  by 
ten  days.  He  had  picked  up  a  boat  of  the  P.  &  O. 
line  at  Port  Said,  sailing  without  stop  to  Mar- 
seilles. From  there  to  Cherbourg  was  a  trifling 
journey. 

George  knew  the  captain,  and  the  captain  not 
only  knew  George,  but  had  known  George's  father 
before  him.  The  young  man  went  to  the  heart 
of  the  matter  at  once;  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  remarkable  tale,  the  captain  lowered  his  cigar. 
It  had  gone  out. 

"And  all  this  happened  in  the  year  1909-1910! 
If  any  one  but  you,  Mr.  Jones,  had  told  me  this, 
I'd  have  sent  him  ashore  as  a  lunatic.  You  have 
reported  it?" 

"What  good  would  it  do?    We  are  out  of  it,  and 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  345 

that's  enough.  More,  we  do  not  want  any  one 
to  know  what  we've  been  through.  If  the  news- 
papers got  hold  of  it,  there  would  be  no  living." 

"You  leave  it  to  me,"  said  the  big-hearted 
German.  "From  here  to  Naples  she  shall  be  as 
mine  own  daughter.  You  have  not  told  me  all?" 

"No;  only  what  I  had  of  necessity  to  tell." 

"Well,  you  know  best.  I  shall  do  my  share  to 
make  her  feel  at  home.  She  is  as  pretty  as  a 
flower." 

To  this  George  agreed,  but  not  verbally. 

The  steamer  weighed  anchor  at  six  o'clock  that 
evening,  with  only  a  handful  of  passengers  for 
the  trip  to  Naples.  George  had  wired  from  Da- 
mascus to  Cairo  to  have  his  luggage  sent  on,  and 
he  saw  it  put  aboard  himself.  Without  letting 
Fortune  know,  he  had  also  telegraphed  the  hotel 
to  forward  whatever  she  had  left;  but  the  return 
wire  informed  him  that  Mrs.  Chedsoye  had  taken 
everything. 

They  were  leaning  against  the  starboard-rail, 
watching  the  slowly  converging  lights  of  the 
harbor.  Fortune  had  borrowed  a  cloak  from  her 


346   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

stewardess  and  George  wore  the  mufti  of  the  first- 
officer.  The  captain  had  offered  his,  but  George 
had  declined.  He  would  have  been  lost  in  its 
ample  folds. 

"I  can  not  understand  why  they  made  no  effort 
to  find  you,"  he  mused.  "It  doesn't  seem  quite 
human." 

"Don't  you  understand?  It  is  simple.  My 
mother  believes  that  Horace  and  I  ran  away  to- 
gether. If  not  that,  I  ran  away  myself,  as  I  that 
day  threatened  to  do.  In  either  case,  she  saw 
nothing  could  be  done  in  trying  to  find  out  where 
I  had  gone.  Perhaps  she  knows  exactly  what  did 
happen.  Doubtless  she  has  sent  on  my  things 
to  Mentone,  which,  of  course,  I  shall  never  see 
again.  No,  no!  I  can  not  go  back  there.  I  have 
known  the  misery  of  suspense  long  enough."  She 
lowered  her  head  to  the  rail. 

He  came  quite  near  to  her.  His  arms  went  out 
toward  her,  only  to  drop  down.  He  must  wait. 
It  was  very  hard.  But  nothing  prevented  his 
putting  forth  a  hand  to  press  hers  reassuringly, 
and  saying:  "Don't  do  that,  Fortune.  It  makes 
my  heart  ache  to  see  a  woman  cry." 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  347 

"I  am  not  crying,"  came  in  muffled  tones.  "I 
am  only  sad,  and  tired,  tired." 

"Everything  will  come  out  all  right  in  the  end," 
he  encouraged.  "Of  course  you  are  tired.  What 
woman  wouldn't  be,  having  gone  through  what 
you  have?  Here;  let's  sit  in  the  steamer-chairs 
till  the  bugle  blows  for  dinner.  I'm  a  bit  fagged 
out  myself." 

They  lay  back  in  the  chairs,  and  no  longer  cared 
to  talk.  The  lights  twinkled,  but  fainter  and 
fainter,  till  at  last  only  the  pale  line  between  the 
sky  and  the  sea  remained.  She  turned  her  head 
and  looked  sharply  at  him.  He  was  sound  asleep. 
"Poor  boy!"  she  murmured  softly.  "How  care- 
worn!" There  was  something  grotesque  in  the 
mask  of  desert  tan  and  shaven  skin.  How  patient 
he  had  been  through  it  all,  and  how  kind  and  gentle 
to  her!  She  remembered  now  of  seeing  him  that 
night  in  Cairo,  and  of  remarking  how  young  and 
fresh  he  seemed  in  comparison  to  the  men  she 
knew  and  had  met.  And  she  must  leave  him,  to 
'go  into  the  world  and  fight  her  own  battles.  If 
God  had  but  given  to  her  a  brother  like  this! 
But  brother  he  never  could  be,  no,  not  even  in 


348   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

the  pleasant  sense  of  adoption.  She  did  not  want 
pity.  .  .  .  To  think  of  his  getting  those 
things  for  her  in  Damascus!  .  .  .  Pity  sug- 
gested that  she  was  weak  and  helpless,  whereas 
she  knew  that  she  was  both  patient  and  strong. 
.  .  .  What  did  she  want?  She  glanced  up  and 
down  the  deck.  It  was  totally  deserted  save  for 
them.  Then,  "clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand 
stars,"  she  leaned  over  and  down  and  brushed  his 
hand  with  her  lips. 

And  George  slept  on.  Only  the  blare  of  the 
bugle  brought  him  back  to  mundane  affairs.  .He 
was  hungry,  and  he  announced  the  fact  with 
gusto.  They  would  dine  well  that  night.  The 
captain  placed  Fortune  at  his  right  and  George 
at  his  left,  and  broached  a  bottle  of  fine  old  Jo- 
hannisberger.  And  the  three  of  them  had  coffee 
in  the  smoke-room.  If  the  other  passengers  had 
any  curiosity,  they  did  not  manifest  it  openly. 

Upon  finding  that  they  had  no  real  need  of  stay- 
ing over  in  Naples,  the  captain  urged  that  they 
take  the  return  voyage  with  him.  He  saw  more 
than  either  of  the  young  people,  with  those  blue 
Teutonic  eyes  of  his.  George  promised  to  let  him 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  349 

know  within  a  dozen  hours  of  the  sailing.  Cer- 
tainly Fortune  would  decide  one  way  or  the  other 
within  that  time. 

Both  had  seen  the  Vesuvian  bay  many  times, 
with  never-failing  love  and  interest.  They  sailed 
across  the  bay  in  the  bright  clearness  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

"You  are  going  back  with  me,"  George  an- 
nounced in  a  tone  which  inferred  that  nothing 
more  was  to  be  said  upon  the  subject.  But,  for 
all  his  confidence,  there  was  a  great  and  heavy 
fear  upon  his  heart  as  he  asked  for  mail  at  the 
little  inclosure  at  Cook's,  in  the  Galleria  Vittoria. 
There  was  a  cable;  nothing  more. 

"Now,  Fortune     ..." 

"Have  I  ever  given  you  permission  to  call  me 
by  that  name?" 

"Why     ..." 

"Have  I?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  give  you  that  permission  now." 

"What  do  you  frighten  a  man  like  that  for?" 
he  cried.  "What  I  was  going  to  say  ... 

"Fortune." 


350   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,  Fortune,  was  this: 
here  is  the  cable  from  Mortimer.  I'm  not  going 
to  open  it  till  after  dinner  to-night.  We'll  go  up 
to  the  Bertolini  to  dine.  You'll  stay  there  for  the 
night,  while  I  put  up  at  the  Bristol,  which  is  only 
a  little  ways  up  the  Corso.  I'm  not  going  to 
ask  you  a  question  till  coffee.  Then  we'll  thrash 
out  the  subject  till  there  isn't  a  grain  left." 

She  made  no  protest.  Secretly  she  was  pleased 
to  be  bullied  like  this.  It  proved  that  among  all 
these  swarming  peoples  there  was  one  interested 
in  her  welfare.  But  she  knew  in  her  heart  what 
she  was  going  to  say  when  the  proper  time  came. 
She  did  not  wish  to  spoil  his  dinner.  She  was 
also  going  to  put  her  courage  to  its  supreme  test : 
borrow  a  hundred  pounds,  and  bravely  promise 
to  pay  him  back.  If  she  failed  to  pay  it,  it  would 
be  because  she  was  dead.  For  she  could  not  sur- 
vive a  comparison  between  herself  and  her  mother. 
Here  in  Naples  she  might  find  something,  an  op- 
portunity. She  spoke  French  and  Italian  fluently; 
and  in  this  crowded  season  of  the  year  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  find  a  situation  as  a  maid  or 
companion.  So  long  as  she  could  earn  a  little 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  351 

honestly,  she  was  not  afraid.  She  was  desperately 
resolved. 

Such  a  dinner!  Long  would  she  remember  it; 
and  longer  still,  how  little  either  of  them  ate  of 
it !  She  knew  enough  about  these  things  to  appre- 
ciate it.  It  must  have  cost  a  pretty  penny.  She 
smiled,  she  laughed,  she  jested;  and  always  a  battle 
to  dam  the  uprising  tears. 

The  dining-room  was  filled;  women  in  beautiful 
evening  gowns  and  men  in  sober  black.  But  the 
two  young  people  were  oblivious.  Their  fellow- 
diners,  however,  bent  more  than  one  glance  in 
their  direction.  Ill-fitting  clothes,  to  be  sure,  but 
it  was  observed  that  they  ate  to  the  manner  born. 
The  girl  was  beautiful  in  a  melancholy  way,  and 
the  young  man  was  well-bred  and  pleasant  of 
feature,  though  oddly  burned. 

Coffee.  George  produced  the  cable.  It  was 
still  sealed. 

"You  read  it  first,"  he  said,  passing  it  across  the 
table. 

Her  hands  shook  as  she  ripped  the  sealed  flap 
and  opened  the  message.  She  read.  Her  eyes 
gathered  dangerously. 


352   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Be  careful!"  he  warned.  "You've  been  brave 
so  long;  be  brave  a  little  longer." 

"I  did  not  know  that  there  lived  such  good  and 
kindly  men.  Oh,  thank  him,  thank  him  a  thou- 
sand times  for  me.  Read  it."  And  she  no  longer 
cared  if  any  saw  her  tears. 

"Bring   her  home,   and   God  bless  you  both. 

"MORTIMER/' 

"I  knew  it!"  he  cried  exultantly.  "He  and  my 
father  were  the  finest  two  men  in  the  world.  The 
sky  is  all  clear  now." 

"Is  it?"  sadly.  "Oh,  I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you, 
but  it  is  charity;  and  I  am  too  proud." 

"You  refuse?"    He  could  not  believe  it. 

"Yes.  But  when  things  grow  dark,  and  the  day 
turns  bitter,  I  shall  always  remember  those  words. 
I  can  see  no  other  way.  I  must  fight  it  out  alone." 

Love  makes  a  man  dumb  or  eloquent;  and  as 
George  saw  all  his  treasured  dreams  fading  swift- 
ly, eloquence  became  his  buckler  in  this  battle  of 
love  unspoken  and  pride  in  arms.  Each  time  he 
paused  for  breath,  she  shook  her  head  slowly. 


FORTUNE  DECIDES  353 

The  diners  were  leaving  in  twos  and  fours,  and 
presently  they  were  all  alone.  Servants  were  clear- 
ing up  the  tables;  there  was  a  clatter  of  dishes 
and  a  tread  of  hurrying  feet.  They  noted  it  not. 
"Well,  one  more  plea!"  And  he  swept  aside  his 
self-imposed  restrictions.  "Will  you  come  for 
my  sake?  Because  I  am  lonely  and  want  you? 
Will  you  come  for  my  sake?" 

This  time  her  head  did  not  move. 
"Is  it  pity?"  she  whispered. 
"Pity!"     His  hands  gripped  the  linen  and  the 
coffee-cups  rattled.     "No!     It  is  not  pity.     Be- 
cause you  were  lonely,  because  you  had  no  one 
to  turn  to,  I  could  not  in  honor  tell  you.     But 
now  I  do.     Fortune,  will  you  come  for  my  sake, 
because  I  love  you  and  want  you  always  and 
always?" 

"I  shall  come." 


CHAPTER    XX 

MARCH    HARES 

GEORGE,  in  that  masterful  way  which  was 
not  wholly  acquired,  but  which  had  been 
a  latency  till  the  episodic  journey — George  paid 
for  the  dinner,  called  the  head-waiter  and  thanked 
him  for  the  attention  given  it,  and  laid  a  gener- 
ous tip  upon  the  cover.  From  the  dining-room 
the  two  young  people,  outwardly  calm  but  in- 
wardly filled  with  the  Great  Tumult,  went  to  the 
manager's  bureau  and  arranged  for  Fortune's 
room.  This  settled,  Fortune  went  down  to  the 
cavernous  entrance  to  bid  George  good  night. 
They  were  both  diffident  and  shy,  now  that  the 
great  problem  was  solved.  George  was  puzzled 
as  to  what  to  do  in  bidding  her  good  night,  and 

354 


MARCH   HARES  355 

Fortune  wondered  if  he  would  kiss  her  right  here, 
before  all  these  horrid  cab-drivers. 

"I  shall  call  for  you  at  nine,"  he  said.  "We've 
got  to  do  some  shopping." 

A  tinkle  of  laughter. 

"These  ready-made  suits  are  beginning  to  look 
like  the  deuce." 

"Do  you  always  think  of  everything?" 

"Well,  what  I  don't  remember,  the  clerk  will," 
slyly.  "Till  recently  I  believe  I  never  thought  of 
anything.  I  must  be  off.  It's  too  cold  down  here 
for  you."  He  offered  his  hand  nervously. 

She  gave  hers  freely.  He  looked  into  her  mar- 
velous eyes  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  the 
palm  upward  and  kissed  it,  lightly  and  loverly; 
and  she  drew  it  across  his  face,  over  his  eyes,  till 
it  left  in  departing  a  caress  upon  his  forehead.  He 
stood  up,  breathing  quickly,  but  not  more  so 
than  she.  A  little  tableau.  Then  he  jammed  his 
battered  fedora  upon  his  head  and  strode  up  the 
Corso.  He  dared  not  turn.  Had  he  done  so,  he 
must  have  gone  back  and  taken  her  in  his  arms. 
She  followed  him  with  brave  eyes;  she  saw  him 
suddenly  veer  across  the  street  and  pause  at  the 


356   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

parapet.  It  was  then  that  she  became  conscious 
of  the  keenness  of  the  night-wind.  She  went  in. 
Somehow,  all  earth's  puzzles  had  that  night  been 
solved. 

George  lighted  a  cigar,  doubtless  the  most  cost- 
ly weed  to  be  found  in  all  Naples  that  night.  The 
intermittent  glowing  of  the  end  faintly  outlined 
his  face.  Far  away  across  the  shimmering  bay 
rose  Capri  in  a  kind  of  magic,  amethystine  trans- 
parency. A  light  or  two  twinkled  where  Sorrento 
lay.  His  gaze  roved  the  half-circle,  and  finally 
rested  upon  the  grim  dark  ash-heap,  Vesuvius. 
Beauty,  beauty  everywhere;  beauty  in  the  sky, 
beauty  upon  earth,  in  his  heart  and  mind.  He 
was  twenty-eight,  and  a41  these  wonderful  things 
had  happened  in  a  little  more  than  so  many  days! 

"God's  in  His  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world !" 

He  flung  the  half-finished  cigar  into  the  air, 
careless  as  to  where  it  fell,  or  that  in  falling  it 
might  set  Naples  on  fire.  It  struck  a  roof  some- 
where below;  a  sputter  of  sparks,  and  all  was  dark 
again. 


MARCH  HARES  357 

"I  shall  come."  All  through  his  dreams  that 
night  he  heard  it.  "I  shall  come." 

Next  morning  he  notified  the  captain  to  retain 
their  cabins.  After  that  they  proceeded  to  storm 
the  shops.  They  were  like  March  hares;  irre- 
sponsible children,  both  of  them.  What  did  pro- 
priety matter?  What  meaning  had  circumspec- 
tion? They  two  were  all  alone;  the  re*st  of  the 
world  didn't  count.  It  never  had  counted  to 
either  of  them.  Certainly  they  should  have  gone 
to  a.  parsonage;  Mrs.  Grundy  would  prudently 
have  suggested  it.  The  trivialities  of  convention, 
however,  had  no  place  at  that  moment  in  their 
little  Eden.  They  were  a  law  unto  themselves. 

Into  twenty  shops  they  went;  modiste  after 
modiste  was  interviewed;  and  Fortune  at  length 
found  two  models.  These  were  pretty,  and,  being 
models,  quite  inexpensive.  Once,  George  was 
forced  to  remain  outside  in  the  carriage.  It  was 
in  front  of  the  lingerie  shop.  He  put  away  each 
receipt,  just  like  a  husband  upon  his  honeymoon. 
Later,  receipts  would  mean  as  much,  but  from  a. 
different  angle  of  vision.  He  bought  so  many 
violets  that  the  carriage  looked  as  though  it  were 


358  THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

ready  for  the  flower  carnival.  He  laughingly  dis- 
regarded her  protests.  It  was  the  Song  of  Songs. 

"My  shopping  is  done,"  she  said  at  last,  drop- 
ping the  bundles  upon  the  carriage  floor.  "Now, 
it  is  your  turn." 

"You  have  forgotten  a  warm  steamer-cloak," 
he  reminded  her. 

"So  I  have!" 

This  oversight  was  easily  remedied;  and  then 
George  sought  the  tailor-shops  for  ready-made 
clothes.  He  had  more  difficulty  than  Fortune; 
ready-made  suits  were  not  the  easiest  things  to 
find  in  Naples.  By  noon,  however,  he  had  ac- 
quired a  Scotch 'woolen  for  day  wear  and  a  fairly 
decent  dinner  suit,  along  with  other  necessities. 

"Well,  I  say!"  he  murmured,  struck  by  a  re- 
vealing thought. 

"Have  you  forgotten  anything?" 

"No.  On  the  contrary,  I've  just  remembered 
something.  I've  got  all  7  need  or  want  in  my 
steamer-trunk;  and  till  this  minute  I  never  once 
thought  of  it." 

How  they  laughed!  Indeed,  so  high  were  their 
spirits  that  they  would  have  laughed  at  any  in- 


MARCH  HARES  359 

consequent  thing.  They  lunched  at  the  Gam- 
brinus,  and  George  mysteriously  bought  up  all  the 
pennies  from  the  hunchback  tobacco  vendor. 
Later,  as  they  bowled  along  the  sea-front,  George 
created  a  small  riot  by  flinging  pennies  to  small 
boys  and  whining  beggars.  At  five  they  went 
aboard  the  ship,  which  was  to  leave  at  sundown, 
some  hours  ahead  of  scheduled  time.  The  captain 
himself  welcomed  them  as  they  climbed  the  sway- 
ing ladder.  There  were  a  hundred  first-class  pas- 
sengers for  the  final  voyage.  The  two,  however, 
still  sat  at  the  right  and  left  of  the  captain;  but 
the  table  was  filled,  and  they  maintained  a  guarded 
prattle.  Every  one  at  once  assumed  that  they 
were  a  bridal  couple,  and  watched  them  with  toler- 
ant amusement.  The  captain  had  considerately 
left  their  names  off  the  passenger-list  as  published 
for  the  benefit  of  the  passengers  and  the  saloon- 
sitting.  So  they  moved  in  a  sort  of  mystery  which 
rough  weather  prevented  being  solved. 

One  night,  when  the  sea  lay  calm  and  the  air 
was  caressingly  mild,  George  and  Fortune  had 
gone  forward  and  were  leaning  over  the  starboard- 
rail  where  it  meets  and  joins  the  forward  beam- 


360  THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

rail.  They  were  watching  for  the  occasional  flicker 
of  phosphorescence.  Their  shoulders  touched,  and 
George's  hand  lay  protectingly  over  hers. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said;  "I  love  you  better  than 
all  the  world." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Sure?    Can  you  doubt  it?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Why     ..." 

But  she  interrupted  him  quickly.  "In  all  this 
time  you  have  never  asked  me  if  I  love  you.  Why 
haven't  you?" 

"I  have  been  afraid." 

"Ask  me!" 

"Do  you  love  me?"  his  heart  missing  a  beat. 

She  leaned  toward  him  swiftly.  "Here  is  my 
answer,"  pursing  her  lips. 

"Fortune!" 

"Be  careful!     I've  a  terrible  temper." 

But  she  was  not  quite  prepared  for  such  rough- 
ness. She  could  not  stir,  so  strongly  did  he  hold 
her  to  his  heart.  Not  only  her  lips,  but  her  eyes, 
her  cheeks,  her  throat,  and  again  her  lips.  He 
hurt  her,  but  her  heart  sang.  No  man  could 


MARCH   HARES  361 

imitate  love  like  that;  and  doubt  spread  its  dark 
pinions  and  went  winging  out  to  sea. 

"That  is  the  way  I  want  to  be  loved.  Always 
love  me  like  that.  Never  wait  for  me  to  ask. 
Come  to  me  at  all  times,  no  matter  how  I  am  en- 
gaged, and  take  me  in  your  arms,  roughly  like 
this.  Then  I  shall  know.  I  have  been  so  lonely; 
my  heart  has  been  so  filled  with  love  and  none 
to  receive  it!  I  love  you.  I  haven't  asked  why; 
I  don't  care.  When  it  began  I  do  not  know  either. 
But  it  is  in  my  heart,  strong  and  for  ever." 

"Heart  o'  mine,  I'm  going  to  be  the  finest  lover 
there  ever  was!" 

The  great  ship  came  up  the  bay  slowly.  It  was 
a  clear,  sparkling,  winter  day,  and  the  towering 
minarets  of  business  stood  limned  against  the 
pale-blue  sky  with  a  delicacy  not  unlike  Japanese 
shell-carving.  A  thousand  thousand  ribbons  of 
cheery  steam  wavered  and  slanted  and  dartled; 
the  river  swarmed  with  bustling  ferries  and  eager 
tugs;  and  great  floats  of  ice  bumped  and  jammed 
about  the  invisible  highways. 

"This  is  where  /  live,"  said  George,  running  his 


362   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

arm  under  hers.  "The  greatest  country  in  the 
world,  with  the  greatest  number  of  mistaken 
ideas,"  he  added  humorously. 

"What  is  it  about  the  native  land  that  clutches 
at  our  hearts  so?  I  am  an  American,  and  yet  I 
was  born  in  the  south  of  France.  I  went  to  school 
for  a  time  near  Philadelphia.  America,  America! 
Can't  I  be  an  American,  even  if  I  was  born  else- 
where?" 

"You  can  never  be  president,"  he  said  gravely. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  president!"  She  snuggled 
closer  to  him.  "All  I  want  to  be  is  a  good  man's 
wife;  to  watch  the  kitchen  to  see  that  he  gets 
good  things  to  eat;  to  guard  his  comforts;  to 
laugh  when  he  laughs;  to  be  gentle  when  he  is 
sad;  to  nurse  him  when  he  is  ill;  to  be  all  and 
everything  to  him  in  adversity  as  well  as  in  pros- 
perity: a  true  wife."  She  touched  his  sleeve  with 
her  cheek.  "And  I  don't  want  him  to  think  that 
he  must  always  be  with  me;  if  he  belongs  to  a 
man-club,  he  must  go  there  once  in  a  while." 

"I  am  very  happy,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

"George,  I  am  uneasy.  I  don't  know  why.  It's 
my  mother,  my  uncle,  and  Horace.  I  am  going 


MARCH   HARES  363 

to  meet  them  somewhere.  I  know  it.  And  I 
worry  about  you." 

"About  me?  That's  foolish."  He  smiled  down 
at  her. 

"Ah,  why  did  my  mother  seek  to  renew  the 
acquaintance  with  you?  Why  did  Horace  have 
you  kidnapped  into  the  desert?  There  can  be  no 
such  a  thing  as  the  United  Romance  and  Adven- 
ture Company.  It  is  a  cloak  for  something  more 
sinister." 

"Pshaw!  What's  the  use  of  worrying,  little 
woman?  Whatever  schemes  they  had  must  be  out 
of  joint  by  now.  Sometimes  I  think  I  must  be 
dreaming,  little  girl." 

"I  am  not  little.    I'm  almost  as  tall  as  you  are." 

"You  are  vastly  taller  in  many  ways." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  I  am  human;  I  have  my 
moods.  I  am  sometimes  crotchety;  sometimes 
unjust  and  quick  of  temper." 

"All  right;  I  want  you,  temper  and  all,  just  the 
same." 

"But  will  they  like  me?  Won't  they  think  I'm 
an  adventuress,  or  something  like  that?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  not  in  a  thousand  years!  I'm 


364   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

a  pretty  wise  man  in  some  ways,  and  they  know 
it." 

And  so  it  proved  to  be.  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mortimer  greeted  them  at  the  pier  in  Hoboken. 
One  glance  at  the  face  of  the  girl  was  sufficient. 
Mrs.  Mortimer  held  out  her  arms.  It  was  a  very 
fine  thing  to  do. 

"I  was  in  doubt  at  first,"  she  said  frankly. 
"George  is  so  guileless.  But  to  look  at  you,  my 
child,  would  scatter  the  doubts  of  a  Thomas.  Will 
you  let  me  be  your  mother,  if  only  for  a  little 
while?"  with  a  wise  and  tender  smile. 

Shyly  Fortune  accepted  the  embrace.  Never 
had  she  been  so  happy.  Never  had  she  felt  arms 
like  these  about  her. 

"What  did  he  cable  you?"  she  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

"That  he  loved  you  and  wanted  me  to  mother 
you  against  that  time  when  he  might  have  the 
right  to  take  you  as  his  own.  Has  he  that  right?" 

"Yes.  And  oh!  he  is  the  bravest  and  tenderest 
man  I  know;  and  below  it  all  he  is  only  a  boy." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  patted  her  hand.  A  little  while 
later  all  four  went  over  to  the  city  and  drove  up- 


MARCH  HARES  365 

town  to  the  Mortimer  home.  On  the  way  For- 
tune told  her  story,  simply,  without  avoiding  any 
essential  detail.  And  all  her  new  mother  did  was 
to  put  an  arm  about  her  and  draw  her  closer. 

The  Mortimer  home  was  only  three  blocks  away 
from  George's.  So,  when  dinner  was  over,  George 
declared  that  he  would  run  over  and  take  a  look 
at  his  own  house.  He  wanted  to  wander  about 
the  rooms  a  bit,  to  fancy  how  it  would  look  when 
Fortune  walked  at  his  side.  He  promised  to  re- 
turn within  an  hour.  He  had  forgotten  many 
things,  ordinarily  important;  such  as  wiring  his 
agent,  his  butler  and  cook,  who  were  still  drawing 
their  wages.  He  passed  along  the  street  above 
which  was  his  own.  He  paused  for  a  moment  to 
contemplate  the  great  banking  concern.  And  the 
president  of  this  bank  was  the  elder  brother  of 
Ryanne!  Lots  of  queer  kinks  in  the  world;  lots 
of  crooked  turnings.  He  passed  on,  turned  the 
corner,  and  strode  toward  his  home,  ecstasy  thril- 
ling his  heart.  Lightly  he  ran  up  the  steps. 
Three  doors  below  he  noticed  two  automobiles. 
He  gave  them  only  a  cursory  glance.  He  took 
out  his  ring  of  keys,  found  the  night-latch  and 


366   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

thrust  it  into  the  keyhole.  He  never  had  believed 
in  this  putting  up  of  iron-gates  and  iron-shutters. 
A  night-latch  and  a  caretaker  who  came  round 
once  a  day  was  enough  for  any  sensible  person. 
He  turned  the  key.  Eh?  It  didn't  seem  to  go 
round.  He  tried  several  times,  but  without  suc- 
cess. Puzzled,  he  struck  a  match  and  stooped 
before  the  keyhole. 
It  was  a  new  one. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE 

GEORGE  stood  irresolutely  upon  the  steps, 
A  new  keyhole!  What  the  deuce  did  the 
agent  mean  by  putting  a  new  keyhole  in  the  door 
without  notifying  him?  As  the  caretaker  never 
entered  that  door,  it  was  all  the  agent's  fault. 
There  was  no  area-way  in  front,  but  between 
George's  house  and  the  next  there  was  a  court 
eight  feet  in  width,  running  to  the  dividing  wall 
between  the  bank  property  and  his  own.  A  grille 
gate  protected  this  court.  George  had  a  key. 
The  gate  opened  readily  enough.  His  intention 
was  to  enter  by  the  basement-door.  But  he  sud- 
denly paused.  To  his  amazement  he  saw  just 
below  the  library  curtain  a  thin  measure  of  light. 
Light!  Some  one  in  the  house!  He  did  the  most 

367 


368   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

sensible  thing  possible:  he  stood  still  till  the  shock 
left  him.  Some  one  in  the  house,  some  one  who 
had  no  earthly  or  heavenly  business  there!  Near 
the  window  stood  a  tubbed  bay-tree.  Cautiously 
he  mounted  this,  holding  the  ledge  of  the  window 
with  his  fingers.  That  he  did  not  instantly  topple 
over  with  a  great  noise  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  temporarily  paralyzed. 

Here  was  the  end  of  the  puzzle.  The  riddle  of 
the  United  Romance  and  Adventure  Company  was 
solved.  At  last  he  understood  why  Mrs.  Ched- 
soye  had  sought  him,  why  Ryanne  had  kidnapped 
him.  But  for  his  continuing  his  journey  upon 
the  German-Lloyd  boat,  he  would  have  come  home 
a  week  too  late;  he  would  have  missed  being  a 
spectator  (already  an  innocent  contributor)  to 
one  of  the  most  daring  and  ingenious  bank- 
robberies  known  in  the  pages  of  metropolitan 
crime.  There  was  Mrs.  Chedsoye,  intrusively 
handsome  as  ever;  there  was  her  rascally  card- 
sharper  brother,  that  ingrate  who  called  himself 
Ryanne,  and  three  unknown  men.  The  impu- 
dence of  it;  the  damnable  insolence  of  it!  And 
there  they  were,  toasting  their  success  in  a  brace 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  369 

of  his  own  vintage-champagne!  But  the  wine  was, 
after  all,  inconsequential.  It  was  what  he  saw 
upon  the  floor  that  caught  him  by  the  throat.  His 
knees  weakened,  but  he  held  on  grimly  to  his  perch. 

White  bags  of  gold,  soiled  bags  of  gold,  and 
neat  packets  of  green  and  yellow  notes:  riches! 
Twenty  bags  and  as  many  packets  of  currency;  a 
million,  not  a  penny  under  that!  George  was 
seized  with  a  horrible  desire  to  yell  with  laughter. 
He  felt  the  cachinnations  bubble  in  his  throat.  He 
swallowed  violently  and  gnawed  his  lips.  They 
had  got  into  his  house  under  false  pretenses 
and  had  tunneled  back  into  the  Merchant- 
Mechanic  Bank,  of  which  Horace's  brother  was 
president  and  in  which  he,  George  P.  A.  Jones, 
always  carried  a  large  private  balance!  It  was  the 
joke  of  the  century. 

As  quietly  as  he  possibly  could,  he  stepped 
down  from  his  uncertain  perch.  In  the  fine  fury 
that  followed  his  amazement,  his  one  thought  was 
to  summon  the  police  at  once,  to  confront  the 
wretches  in  their  villainy;  but  once  outside  in  the 
street,  he  cooled.  Instantly  he  saw  the  trial  in 
court.  Fortune  as  witness  against  her  own 


370   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

mother.  That  was  horrible  and  not  to  be  thought 
of.  But  what  should  he  do?  He  was  shaken  to 
his  soul.  The  stupendous  audacity  of  such  a  plan! 
To  have  worked  out  every  detail,  down  to  the 
altering  of  the  keyhole  to  prevent  surprise!  He 
saw  the  automobiles.  They  were  leaving  that 
night.  If  he  acted  at  all,  it  must  be  within  an 
hour;  in  less  than  that  time  they  would  be  loading 
the  cars.  His  mind  began  to  rid  itself  of  its  con- 
fusion. Without  the  aid  of  the  police;  and  pres- 
ently he  saw  the  way  to  do  it. 

He  was  off  at  a  dog-trot,  upon  the  balls  of  his 
feet,  silently.  Within  five  minutes  he  was  mount- 
ing the  steps  to  the  Mortimer  home,  and  in  an- 
other minute  was  inside.  The  others  saw  directly 
that  something  serious  had  happened. 

"What's  the  trouble,  George?  House  van- 
ished?" asked  Mortimer. 

"Have  you  got  a  brace  of  revolvers?"  said 
George  quietly. 

"Two  automatics.     But     .     .     . 

"Give  them  to  me,"  less  evenly  in  tone.  "Will 
you  call  up  Arthur  Wadsworth,  president  of  the 
Merchant-Mechanic  Bank?" 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  371 

"The  bank?" 

"Yes,  the  bank.  You  know,  it  is  just  in  the 
rear  of  my  house." 

Here  Fortune  came  forward.  All  the  bright 
color  was  gone  from  her  cheeks;  the  old  mask  of 
despair  had  re-formed.  She  needed  no  further 
enlightenment. 

"Are  you  going  back  there?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear;  I  must.  Mr.  Mortimer  will  go  with 
me." 

"And  I?" 

"No,  heart  o'  mine;  you've  got  to  stay  here." 

"If  you  do  not  take  me  with  you,  you  will  not 
find  me  here  when  you  return." 

"My  child,"  began  Mortimer  soothingly,  "you 
must  not  talk  like  that.  There  will  be  danger." 

"Then  notify  the  police,  and  let  the  danger  rest 
upon  their  shoulders,"  she  said,  her  jaws  set 
squarely. 

"I  can't  call  in  the  police,"  replied  George, 
miserable. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

"Dearest,  can't  you  understand  that  it  is  you 
I  am.  thinking  of?" 


372   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"I  am  determined.  If  I  do  not  go  with  you, 
you  shall  never  see  me  again.  My  mother  is 
there!" 

Tragedy.  Mrs.  Mortimer  stretched  out  a  hand, 
but  the  girl  did  not  see  it.  Her  mother;  her  own 
flesh  and  blood!  Oh,  the  poor  child! 

"Come,  then,"  said  George,  in  despair.  "But 
you  are  hurting  me,  Fortune." 

"Forgive  me,  but  I  must  go  with  you.    I  must!" 

"Get  me  the  revolvers,  Mr.  Mortimer.  We'll 
wait  for  Wadsworth.  Will  you  please  telephone 
him?  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  talk  steadily  enough. 
Explain  nothing  save  that  it  concerns  his  bank." 

George  sat  down.  Not  during  those  early  days 
of  the  journey  across  the  desert  had  he  felt  so 
pitiably  weak  and  inefficient. 

Fortune  paced  the  room,  her  arms  folded  tightly 
across  her  breast.  Strange,  there  was  neither  fear 
nor  pain  in  her  heart,  only  a  wild  wrath. 

When  Mortimer  returned  from  the  telephone, 
saying  that  Wadsworth  would  be  right  over,  he 
asked  George  to  explain  fully  what  was  going  on. 
It  was  rather  a  long  story.  George  managed  to 
get  through  it  with  a  coherency  understandable, 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  373 

but  no  more.  Mr^.  Mortimer  put  her  motherly 
arms  about  the  girl,  but  she  found  no  pliancy. 
There  was  no  resistance,  but  there  was  that  stiff- 
ness peculiar  to  felines  when  picked  up  under  pro- 
test. And  there  was  a  little  more  than  the  cat  in 
Fortune  then;  the  tigress.  She  was  not  her 
mother's  daughter  for  nothing.  To  confront  her, 
to  overwhelm  her  with  reproach,  to  show  her  not 
the  least  mercy,  stonily  to  see  her  led  away  to 
prison! 

George  inspected  the  revolvers  carefully  to  see 
if  they  were  loaded. 

The  bell  rang,  and  Arthur  Wadsworth  came  in. 
Mortimer  knew  him;  George  did  not.  He  drew 
his  interest  as  it  fell  due  and  deposited  it  in  an- 
other bank.  That  was  the  extent  of  his  relations 
with  Arthur  Wadsworth,  president  of  the  Mer- 
chant-Mechanic Bank  of  New  York. 

Arthur  was  small,  thin,  blond  like  his  brother, 
but  the  hair  was  so  light  upon  the  top  of  his  head 
that  he  gave  one  the  impression  that  he  was  bald. 
His  eyes  looked  out  from  behind  half-shut  lids; 
his  cheeks  were  cadaverous;  his  pale  lips  met  in 
a  straight,  unpleasant  line.  There  was  not  the 


374  THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

slightest  resemblance  between  the  two  brothers, 
either  in  their  bodies  or  in  their  souls.  George 
recognized  this  fact  immediately.  He  disliked  the 
man  instinctively,  just  as  he  could  not  help  admir- 
ing his  rogue  of  a  brother. 

"I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  my  house  at 
once,"  began  George. 

"Please  explain." 

George  disliked  the  voice  even  more  than  the 
man  himself.  "Everything  will  be  explained 
there,"  he  replied. 

"This  is  very  unusual,"  the  banker  complained. 

"You  will  find  it  so.  Come."  George  moved 
toward  the  hall,  the  revolvers  in  his  coat-pocket. 

"But  I  insist     ..." 

"Mr.  Wadsworth,  everything  will  be  fully  ex- 
plained to  you  the  moment  you  enter  my  house. 
More  I  shall  not  tell  you.  You  are  at  liberty  to 
return  home." 

"It  concerns  the  bank?"  The  voice  had  some- 
thing human  in  it  now;  a  note  of  affection. 

Arthur  Wadsworth  loved  the  bank  as  a  man 
loves  his  sweetheart,  but  more  explicitly,  as  a 
miser  loves  the  hoard  hidden  in  the  stocking.  He 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  375 

loved  every  comer  of  the  building.  He  wor- 
shiped the  glass-covered  marbles  over  which 
the  gold  passed  and  repassed.  He  adored  the 
sight  of  the  bent  backs  of  the  bookkeepers,  the 
individual-account  clerks,  the  little  cages  of  the 
paying  and  receiving  tellers,  always  so  beautifully 
littered  with  little  slips  of  paper,  packets  of  bills, 
stacks  of  gold  and  silver;  he  loved  the  huge  steel- 
vault,  stored  with  bags  of  gold  and  bundles  of 
notes,  bonds,  and  stocks.  Money  was  his  god. 
Summed  up,  he  was  a  miser  in  all  that  con- 
temptible word  implies:  stingy,  frugal,  cautious, 
suspicious,  sly,  cruel,  and  relentless;  he  was  in 
the  concrete  what  his  father  had  been  in  the 
abstract. 

"It  concerns  the  bank?"  he  repeated,  torn  by 
doubt. 

George  shrugged.     "Let  us  be  going." 

"Will  it  be  necessary  to  call  in  the  police?" 

"No." 

"I  suppose,  then,"  said  Wadsworth  bitterly, 
wondering,  too,  over  the  strange  animosity  of  this 
young  man  he  did  not  know— "I  suppose  I  must 
do  just  as  you  say?" 


376   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Absolutely."  George's  teeth  came  together 
with  a  click. 

The  four  of  them  passed  out  of  the  house,  each 
singularly  wrought  with  agitation.  Fortune 
walked  ahead  with  George.  Neither  spoke.  They 
could  hear  the  occasional  protest  from  the  banker 
into  Mortimer's  ear;  but  Mortimer  did  not  open  his 
lips.  They  came  to  the  house,  and  then  George 
whispered  his  final  instructions  to  Wadsworth. 
The  latter,  when  he  understood  what  was  taking 
place,  became  wild  with  rage  and  terror;  and  it 
was  only  because  George  threatened  to  warn  the 
conspirators  that  he  subsided. 

"And,"  went  on  George,  "if  you  do  not  obey, 
you  can  get  out  of  it  the  best  you  know  how. 
Now,  silence,  absolute  silence." 

He  pressed  back  the  grille  gate,  and  the  others 
tiptoed  after  him. 

Ryanne  tipped  the  third  bottle  delicately.  Not 
a  drop  was  wasted.  How  the  golden  beads 
swarmed  up  to  the  brim,  to  break  into  little 
essences  of  perfume!  And  this  was  good  wine; 
twelve  years  in  the  bottle. 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  377 

"It's  like  some  dream;  eh?" 

Wallace  smacked  his  lips  loudly. 

"Wallace,"  chided  Ryanne,  "you  always  drink 
like  a  sailor.  You  don't  swallow  champagne;  you 
sip  it,  like  this." 

Major  Callahan  swayed  his  glass  back  and  forth 
under  his  nose.  "Smells  like  a  vineyard  after  a 
rain." 

"There's  poetry  for  you!"  laughed  the  butler. 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  alone  seemed  absorbed  in  other 
things.  She  was  trying  to  discover  what  it  was 
that  gave  this  supreme  moment  so  flat  a  taste. 
It  was  always  so;  it  was  the  chase,  the  goat  was 
nothing.  It  was  the  excitement  of  going  toward, 
not  arriving  at,  the  destination.  Was  she,  who 
considered  herself  so  perfect,  a  freak  after  all, 
shallow  like  a  hill-stream  and  as  aimless  in  her 
endeavors?  Had  she  possessed  a  real  enthusiasm 
for  anything?  She  looked  back  along  the  twisted 
avenue  of  years.  Had  anything  really  stirred  her 
profoundly?  From  the  bags  of  gold  her  glance 
strayed  up  and  over  to  Ryanne.  Love?  Love  a 
man  so  weak  that  he  could  not  let  be  the  bottle? 
She  had  a  horror  of  drunkenness,  the  inane 


378   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

giggles,  the  attending  nausea;  she  had  been 
through  it  all.  Had  she  loved  him,  or  was  it 
because  he  loved  the  child?  Even  this  she  could 
not  tell.  Inwardly  she  was  opaque  to  her  search- 
ings.  She  stirred  restlessly.  She  wanted  to  be 
out  of  this  house,  on  the  way.  The  gold,  as  gold, 
meant  nothing.  She  had  enough  for  her  needs. 
What  was  it,  then?  Was  she  mad?  What  flung 
her  here  and  about,  without  real  purpose? 

"We  could  have  taken  every  dollar  from  the 
vault,"  said  Wallace  cheerfully. 

"But  we  couldn't  have  made  our  get-away  with 
it,"  observed  the  butler,  holding  his  empty  glass 
toward  Ryanne,  who  was  acting  as  master  of 
ceremonies. 

"A  clear,  unidentified  million,"  mused  Ryanne. 
"Into  the  cars  with  it;  over  to  Jersey  City;  on  to 
Philadelphia;  but  there  for  Europe;  quietly  trans- 
fer the  gold  to  the  various  Continental  banks ;  and 
in  six  months,  who  could  trace  hair  or  hide  of  it?" 
Ryanne  laughed. 

"It's  all  right  to  laugh,"  said  the  Major.  "But 
are  you  sure  about  Jones?  He  could  have  arrived 
this  afternoon." 


A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  379 

"Impossible !  He  left  Alexandria  for  Naples  on 
a  boat  that  stopped  but  thirty  hours.  With  For- 
tune on  his  hands  he  could  not  possibly  sail  before 
the  folio  ,ving  week,  and  maybe  not  then.  Sit 
tight.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about." 

"He  might  cable." 

"So  he  might.  But  if  he  had  we'd  have  heard 
from  him  before  now.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a 
secret.  My  name  is  not  Ryanne." 

"We  all  know  that,"  said  the  Major. 

"It's  Wadsworth.  Does  that  tickle  your  mind 
any?" 

The  men  shook  their  heads.  Mrs.  Chedsoye 
did  not  move  hers. 

"Bah!  Greatest  joke  of  the  hour.  I'm  Horace 
Wadsworth,  and  Arthur  Wadsworth,  president  of 
the  Merchant-Mechanic  Bank,  is  my  beloved 
brother!" 

"Ay,  damnable  wretch!" 

A  shock  ran  through  them  all.  In  the  door- 
way leading  to  the  rear  hall  stood  George,  his 
revolvers  leveled  steadily.  Peering  white-faced 
over  his  shoulder  was  the  man  who  had  spoken, 
Arthur  Wadsworth. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE 

THE  elder  brother  tried  to  push  past  George, 
but    old    Mortimer    caught    him    by    the 
shoulders  and  dragged  him  back. 

"Let  me  go!"  he  cried,  his  voice  nasal  and  high. 
"Do  you  hear  me?  Let  me  go!" 

"Mr.  Mortimer,"  said  George,  without  turning 
his  head  or  letting  his  eye  waver,  "keep  him  back. 
Thanks."  George  stepped  over  the  threshold. 
"Now,  gentlemen,  I  shall  shoot  the  first  man  who 
makes  a  movement." 

And  Ryanne,  who  knew  something  about; 
George,  saw  that  he  meant  just  what  he  said. 
"Steady,  every  one,"  he  said.  "My  friend  George 
here  can't  shoot;  but  that  kind  of  a  man  is  dead- 
liest with  a  pistol.  I  surrender." 

380 


THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE        381 

The  brother  was  struggling.  "The  telephone! 
The  telephone!  I  demand  to  call  the  police.  This 
is  accessory  to  the  fact!  I  tell  you,  let  me  go!" 

"Mr.  Wadsworth,"  replied  George,  "if  you  do 
not  be  still  and  let  me  run  this  affair,  I'll  throw 
the  pistols  to  the  floor,  and  your  brother  and  his 
friends  may  do  as  they  bally  please.  Now,  step 
back  and  be  quiet.  Stop!"  to  Ryanne;  whose  hand 
was  reaching  out  toward  the  table. 

"Don't  shoot,  Percival;  I  want  only  a  final  glass 
of  wine."  Ryanne  calmly  took  the  slender  stem 
of  the  glass  between  his  fingers,  lifted  it  and  drank. 
He  set  it  down  empty.  From  his  outside  pocket 
he  drew  a  handkerchief  and  delicately  dried  his 
lips.  He  alone  of  his  confederates  had  life.  It  was 
because  he  alone  understood.  Prison  wasn't  star- 
ing them  in  the  face  just  yet.  "Well,  Arthur,  old 
top,  how  goes  it?  Nearly  got  your  money-bags, 
didn't  we?  And  we  surely  would  have  but  for  this 
delicious  vintage." 

"Damn  you  and  your  wine!"  roared  the  Major, 
shaking  with  rage.  This  adventure  had  been  no 
joke  to  him,  no  craving  for  excitement.  He 
wanted  the  gold,  the  gold.  With  what  would 


382   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

have  been  his  share  he  could  have  gambled  at 
Monte  Carlo  and  Ostend  till  the  end  of  his  days. 
For  the  first  time  he  saw  long,  thick  bars  of  iron 
running  up  and  down  a  window.  And  all  for  a 
bottle  of  wine! 

"Damn  away,  old  sport!"  Ryanne  reached  for 
the  bottle  and  rilled  his  glass  again.  "Perci- 
val,  I'm  blamed  sorry  about  that  olive-tree  of 
yours."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  bags. 
"You  can  see  that  my  intentions  in  regard  to  re- 
funding that  hundred  pounds  were  strictly  honor- 
able. Now,  what's  on  the  ticket?" 

"I  suppose  your  luggage  is  outside  in  the  auto- 
mobiles?" 

"Right-OP 

"Well,  I  need  not  explain  my  reasons;  you  will 
understand  them;  but  I  am  going  to  give  you  all 
two  hours'  time.  Then  I  shall  notify  the  police. 
You  will  have  to  take  your  chance  after  that 
time." 

The  circling  faces  brightened  perceptibly.  Two 
hours — that  would  carry  them  far  into  Jersey. 

"Accepted  with  thanks,"  said  Ryanne. 

"I  refuse  to  permit  it!"  yelled  the  brother.  "Mr. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE        383 

Jones,  you  will  rtre  this  night's  work.  I  shall  see 
that  the  law  looks  into  your  actions.  This  is 
felony.  I  demand  to  be  allowed  to  telephone." 

"Percival,  for  heaven's  sake,  let  him!"  cried 
Ryanne  wearily.  "Let  him  shout;  it  will  soften 
his  voice.  He  will  hurt  nobody.  The  wires  were 
cut  hours  ago." 

Mortimer  felt  the  tense  muscles  in  his  grasp 
relax.  Arthur  Wadsworth  grew  limp  and  reeled 
against  the  jamb  of  the  door. 

"You  had  better  start  at  once,"  George  advised. 
"You  three  first,"  with  a  nod  toward  Wallace  (his 
bulbous  nose  now  lavender  in  hue),  the  butler  and 
the  first-man.  "Forward  march,  front  door.  Go 
on!" 

"What  about  me?"  asked  Ryanne. 

"In  a  moment."  George  could  not  but  admire 
the  man,  rascal  though  he  was.  There  was  a  pang 
of  regret  in  his  heart  as  the  thought  came  and 
went  swiftly:  what  a  comrade  this  man  would 
have  made  under  different  circumstances!  Too 
late!  "Halt!"  he  cried.  The  trio  marching  toward 
the  door  came  to  a  stop,  their  heads  turned  in- 
quiringly. "Here,  Mr.  Mortimer;  take  one  of 


384   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

these  guns  and  cover  the  Major.  He's  the  one  I 
doubt."  Then  George  followed  the  others  into  the 
hall  and  ironically  bade  them  God-speed  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  them.  They  went  out  stupid- 
ly; the  wine  had  dulled  them.  George  immediately 
returned  to  the  library. 

Neither  Fortune  nor  her  mother  had  stirred  in 
all  this  time.  A  quality  of  hypnotism  held  them 
in  bondage.  The  mother  could  not  lower  her 
glance  and  the  daughter  would  not.  If  there  was 
a  light  of  triumph  in  Fortune's  eyes,  it  was  un- 
consciously there.  And  no  one  will  know  the  full 
bitterness  that  shone  from  the  mother's.  She 
could  have  screamed  with  fury;  she  could  have 
rent  her  clothes,  torn  her  skin,  polled  her  hair; 
and  yet  she  sat  there  without  physical  sign  of  the 
tempest.  This  offers  a  serio-comic  suggestion;  but 
it  was  tragedy  enough  for  the  woman  who  was 
in  the  clutch  of  these  emotional  storms.  It  was 
not  her  predicament;  it  was  not  that  she  was 
guilty  of  a  crime  against  society;  it  was  not  that 
she  had  failed.  No.  It  was  because  she,  in  leaving 
this  house  for  ever,  was  leaving  her  daughter 
behind,  mistress  of  it. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE        385 

On  her  side,  Fortune  knew,  that,  had  there  been 
a  single  gesture  inviting  pity,  she  must  have  flown 
to  her  mother's  side.  But  there  was  no  sign. 
Finally,  Fortune  stepped  back,  chilled.  It  was  all 
too  late. 

"Fortune,"  said  George,  terribly  embarrassed, 
"do  you  wish  to  speak  to  your  mother,  alone?" 

"No."  It  was  a  little  word,  spoken  in  a  little, 
hushed  tone. 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  rose  and  proceeded  to  put  on  her 
furs,  which  she  had  flung  across  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"Mother!"  This  came  in  a  gasp  from  the  elder 
Wadsworth.  An  understanding  of  this  strange 
proceeding  began  to  filter  through  his  mind.  The 
young  girl's  mother! 

Mrs.  Chedsoye  drew  on  her  gloves  slowly.  She 
offered  them  to  the  Major  to  button.  He  flung 
the  hands  aside.  He  was  not  nice  under  the 
veneer.  But  Ryanne  was  instantly  at  her  service. 
And  curiously  she  watched  his  agile  fingers  at 
work  over  the  buttons;  they  were  perfectly  steady. 
Then,  followed  by  the  Major  and  Ryanne,  she 
walked  easily  toward  the  hall.  Ryanne  paused. 


386   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

"Good  night,  Arthur.  I'm  sure  you  will  not 
sleep  well.  That  handsome  safe  is  irreparably 
damaged.  I  dare  say  you  will  find  a  way  to  cover 
the  loss  without  any  injury  to  your  own  pocket. 
Old  top,  farewell!  Who  was  it,  Brutus  or  Caesar, 
who  said:  'I  go  but  to  return'?"  The  banter  left 
his  face  and  voice  swiftly.  "You  sneaking  black- 
guard, you  cheater  of  widows;  yes,  I  shall  come 
again;  and  then  look  to  your  sleek,  sanctimonious 
neck!  You  chucked  me  down  the  road  to  hell, 
and  the  pity  of  it  is,  some  day  I  must  meet  you 
there!  Fortune,  child,"  his  voice  becoming  sad, 
"you  might  remember  a  poor  beggar  in  your 
prayers  to-night.  Percival,  a  farewell  to  you.  We 
shall  never  meet  again.  But  when  you  stand  upon 
that  bally  old  rug  there,  you'll  always  see  me, 
the  fire,  the  tents,  the  camels  and  the  desert,  and 
the  moon  in  the  date-palms.  By-by!" 

And  presently  they  were  gone.  A  moment 
later  those  remaining  could  hear  the  chug-chug  of 
the  motors  as  they  sped  away.  The  banker  was 
first  to  recover  from  the  spell.  He  rushed  for  the 
hall,  but  George  stopped  him  rudely. 

"Two  hours,  if  you  please.     I  never  break  my 


THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE        387 

word.  Your  money  is  all  there.  If  you  do  not 
act  reasonably,  I'll  throw  you  down  and  sit  on 
you  till  the  time  is  up.  Sit  down.  I  do  not  pro- 
pose that  my  future  wife  shall  appear  in  court  as 
a  witness  against  her  mother.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  now?" 

The  banker  signified  that  he  did.  He  sat  down, 
rather  subdued.  Then  he  got  up  nervously  and 
inventoried  the  steal.  He  counted  roughly  a  mil- 
lion. A  million!  He  felt  sick  and  weak.  It 
would  have  wrecked  the  bank,  wiped  it  out  of 
existence.  And  saved  by  the  merest,  the  most 
trifling  chance!  A  bottle  of  wine!  He  resumed 
his  chair  and  sat  there  wonderingly  till  the  time- 
limit  expired. 

The  public  never  heard  how  nearly  the 
Merchant-Mechanic  had  gone  to  the  wall;  nor 
how  six  policemen  had  worked  till  dawn  carrying 
back  the  gold;  nor  that  the  banker  had  not  even 
thanked  them  for  their  labor.  The  first  impulse 
of  the  banker  had  been  to  send  the  story  forth  to 
the  world,  to  harass  and  eventually  capture  his 
brother;  but  his  foresight  becoming  normal,  he 
realized  that  silence  was  best,  even  if  his  brother 


388   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

escaped.  If  the  depositors  heard  that  the  bank 
had  been  entered  and  a  million  taken  from  the 
vaults,  there  would  naturally  follow  a  terrific  run. 
When  the  last  bag-  had  been  taken  out  of  the 
library  and  the  banker  and  the  police  had  gone, 
the  bell  rang-.  George  went  to  the  door.  A 
messenger  handed  him  a  small  satchel  and  a  note. 
There  was  to  be  no  reply.  The  note  was  from 
Ryanne.  Briefly  it  stated  that  the  satchel  con- 
tained the  emeralds.  There  had  been  some  diffi- 
culty in  forcing  the  Major  to  surrender  them. 
But  that  much  was  due  to  George  for  his  gener- 
osity. Later  in  the  day  he — George — might  in- 
form his — Horace's — brother  that  the  coup  hadn't 
been  a  total  fizzle.  They  had  already  packed  away 
in  suit-cases  something  like  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  in  bills  of  all  denominations.  "Tell  that 
dear  brother  of  mine  to  charge  it  to  our  account. 
It  will  be  less  than  the  interest  upon  a  million  in 
ten  years.  To  you,  my  boy,  I  add :  Fortune  favors 
the  brave!" 

"George,"  said  Mortimer,  "you  will  not  mind  if 
I  forage  round  in  the  kitchen?    A  bottle  of  beer 


THE  END  OF  THE  PUZZLE        389 

and  a  bit  of  cheese  would  go  handy.  It's  almost 
my  breakfast  time." 

"Bless  your  heart,  help  yourself!" 

And  George  turned  to  Fortune. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  seizing  his  hands,  "you  will  not 
think  ill  of  me?" 

"And  for  what?"  astonished. 

"For  not  speaking  to  my  mother.  Oh,  I  just 
couldn't;  I  just  couldn't!  When  I  thought  of  all 
the  neglect,  all  the  indifference,  the  loneliness,  I 
couldn't!  It  was  horribly  unnatural  and  cruel!" 

"I  understand,  heart  o'  mine.  Say  no  more 
about  it."  And  he  put  his  two  hands  against  her 
cheeks  and  kissed  her.  "Never  shall  you  be  lonely 
again,  for  I  am  going  to  be  all  things  to  you. 
Poor  heart!  Just  think  that  all  that  has  passed 
has  been  only  a  bad  dream,  and  that  it's  clear 
sunshiny  morning;  eh?"  He  held  her  off  a  ways 
and  then  swept  her  into  his  arms  as  he  had  done 
on  board  the  ship,  roughly  and  masterly.  "And 
there's  that  old  rug!  Talk  about  magic  carpets! 
There  never  was  one  just  like  this.  But  for  it  I 
shouldn't  even  have  known  you.  And,  by  Jove! 
when  the  minister  comes  this  afternoon  .  .  . 


390   THE  CARPET  FROM  BAGDAD 

'This  afternoon!" 

''Exactly!  When  he  comes,  you  and  I  are  going 
to  stand  upon  that  beautiful,  friendly  old  rug, 
and  both  of  us  are  going  to  be  whisked  right  away 
into  Eden." 

"Please!" 

Silence. 

"How  brave  you  are !" 

"I?    Oh,  pshaw!" 

"Would  you  have  shot  one  of  them?" 

"Girl,  your  Percival  Algernon  couldn't  have  hit 
the  broad  side  of  a  barn."  He  laughed  joyously. 

"I  knew  it.    And  that  is  why  I  call  you  brave." 

And  when  the  pale  gold  of  winter  dawn  filled 
the  room,  it  found  them,  hand  in  hand,  staring 
down  at  the  old  Yhiordes,  the  magic  old  Yhiordes 

from  Bagdad. 

« 

THE  END 


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